Come to Me
by Angel of Mystery-145
Summary: 19th century– a gripping tale of love and hatred, mercy and revenge, pride and betrayal – and an obsession that captured two souls and stunned minds & hearts...a gothic retelling of PotO with a Wuthering Heights feel & ALW overtones...E/C, as always
1. Chapter 1

_**He swore he would never leave her … She swore she would never betray **__**him.**_

_**Lies are dark.**_

_**But truth can be darker ...**_

* * *

**An E/C PotO romance/drama with a **_**backstory**_** of ****Brontë****'s Wuthering Heights (though not a true crossover because most PotO characters stay the same **_**and**_** assume WH roles too) – My own adaptation - I have long wanted to write this and waited more than a year to begin posting, (wanted to finish Treasure first)… do NOT look for complete matches of either story, though I did borrow off ALW, a little Kay, and WH. I also changed a few WH characters to fit for PotO, etc. Some areas will closely resemble WH, many will strongly match PotO, and other times story will sharply veer into something completely different but always with a PotO feel. I saw strong similarities in PotO and WH and have long wanted to blend them into my own unique tale. I also changed around ages and years to work better. This gives E/C a different backstory and in a whole new light – yet, conforms to the **_**ideas**_** of ALW's POTO and what happened at the opera house, with my own little shockers, twists, and turns … **

**A gothic tale, darker in nature than any I've done before, filled to the brim with angst – tragic – shocking at times, with shocking "surprises" but I DO NOT write unhappy endings. Please keep that in mind as you read. Situations are not always as they appear ... As all my stories do, to ease tension when needed, it will also contain fluff, humor, lighthearted moments and sexual situations that become ****very**** explicit further into story - (a big reason for M rating). Main story set before & during time of movie -bumped back a couple of years so I didn't have to deal with the war (there's enough conflict in this without that too.) A short prologue set in 1919 to set this up, etc (like ALW did with his…) **

**Disclaimer- I own nothing of ALW's PotO or ****Brontë's ****Wuthering Heights (in public domain).**

**This is told in two parts. Part I tells the past and is shorter than Part II, with shorter chapters, but Part I is important to understand Part II. I advise not to skip so as not to lose anything and get the most out of this tale. ... I am currently writing 3 PotO stories here- I switch off with story chapters to keep the flow going and prevent blocks. That's just the way I am. To those new to my work – I'm a finisher. Look at my listing of stories to see that. Reviews and any constructive criticism always appreciated!**

**And so, I give you yet another epic tale of The Phantom of the Opera…**

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Prologue

(Paris, France - 1919)

.

A vicious streak of lightning ripped apart the night sky above the looming opera house of pale stone. In the deserted streets below, a hunched figure shivered and raced for the wide steps that led to its massive doors.

His fist pounded on the peeling wood. "Let me in! By God, _let me in!_"

The ominous glow of the storm flickered madly along the Rue Scribe as the rain pelted down and struck the worn paving. He cast a nervous glance about, feeling as if someone were watching through the round windows the startling color of blood. In another fierce blaze of white from the merciless heavens, he could make out two shadows that moved beyond the opaque glass of the nearest window.

"_By all that is holy, give me entrance I say!_"

Minutes that felt like hours elapsed as the storm raged on, the wind growing stronger. His pounding never ceased, until, at last, the door swung open by the hand of a woman in a gray wrapper. Her brown hair was curly and wild, her dark eyes impatient in the glow of the candle she held.

"Are you insane? Who are you and what is it you want?"

Thinking her a servant, he addressed her as such. "Woman, let me inside. I have business here."

"Business? Could you have not come at a decent hour? It is nearing midnight."

"I was forced off the road by some crazed lunatic on a black horse. My automobile hit a tree. I've walked this entire way, in a storm no less, and need shelter, a place to sleep. I also am in need of a meal." He pushed past her, his eyes taking a cursory view of the dark cavernous interior of the foyer and three sets of stairs that led into pitch darkness. "I am Monsieur de Galle. I was hired by the new managers to determine if this place should be condemned and demolished."

She stiffened. "_You_ are the building inspector." She seemed to recall the previous part of his conversation. "A man on a black horse forced you off the road?"

"A madman who charged right for my auto. I had no choice but to swerve to miss him." Noting how her eyes had widened, he chose not to elaborate on the strange encounter. He pulled off his hat and gloves, pushing them toward her.

She raised her chin and did not take them. "Monsieur, you are mistaken. I am not the maid. Nor am I the cook." She seemed to relent as she closed the great door and barred it. "However, I can give you biscuits and cheese."

"How kind," he spoke dryly. "And some wine to take the chill off perhaps?"

She gave a curt nod. "Follow me."

She took him through the dark foyer and past staircases that seemed to lead into oblivion. He followed the candle's flicker outlining her small silhouette through a narrow corridor, then another. He assumed she must be in her forties, at least, and wondered if she was the caretaker or related to one. Before he could inquire, she opened a door, standing aside for him to enter.

"This is where the managers slept when one or the other of them stayed the night." She moved to touch her flame to a candle's wick.

In the dim glow, he took note of the room; cramped and small, containing a desk, bookshelves, and a small sofa. A profuse layer of dust covered everything in sight. She took a pillow and swatted it over the sofa, stirring up a thick cloud of the choking particles and setting him to coughing.

"Really, Madame!"

Again she lifted her chin in an imperious way. "It is all I can offer. I'll get your food."

With a disgusted grimace, he pulled off his drenched coat, letting it fall to the floor, and took note of the room, which looked as forgotten as the exterior of the opera house. Old bills covered the faded wallpaper proclaiming past operas in their glory days. He sniffed and peered closer, making out the name "La Carlotta" above a well-endowed, feisty looking redhead in a production of Chalemau's Hannibal. He wouldn't have minded taking a tumble with her ...

The woman returned with a meager plate of food and a smaller glass of wine. She bid him goodnight and quickly left. He barely took notice of her, studying the bindings in the bookcases, at last choosing Dante's Inferno. He wished for a dour tale to suit his bleaker mood. He pulled the volume from its slot and blew off a heavy coat of dust, scowling.

Settling upon the chaise, he ate as he began to read, taking a sip of the terribly bitter wine after every few pages, until he'd consumed what little she'd brought him. Weary from his unwanted adventure of earlier, he settled back to rest his eyes, keeping the candle lit.

A cold droplet hit his brow.

"Wh-what the hell!" he sputtered.

Another followed, and he shot upward, glaring at the ceiling. A dark patch relayed evidence of a leak. If this was what he could expect with the remainder of the opera house, the whole damned building was coming down tomorrow!

He jumped to his feet and grabbed the candle. Did they not believe in lanterns in this cold, tomblike edifice? Somewhere, surely, there had to be better lodgings than what that hostile woman had shown him! This building had housed dormitories, for God's sake!

Muttering as he wended his way through a corridor, the candle's glow softly shimmered upon a beautiful rose-colored door with painted flowers. It stood the slightest bit ajar.

Curious, he pushed it open the rest of the way and gaped at the sight.

A woman's room lay before him, three times the size of the manager's office and quite lovely, with a dressing table, a screen, and a chaise lounge among the pieces of furniture – and not a speck of dust in sight. This room had been kept well tended. The area was lush; no expense spared. Plush satin pillows and thick pile rugs offered soothing comfort. The walls, the chairs, even the arches of the ceiling were embellished with angels or entwined with roses. A huge floor-to-ceiling mirror in a gold frame carved with cherubs stood, taking up one-third of the wall near the dressing table. A room fit for a queen. Or a star. Undoubtedly, the diva's headquarters, and perfect for his practical requirements for a peaceful night's rest.

He settled himself on the silk-covered lounge and laid his head on the plump pillow there. It smelled like roses, long dead. The musty fragrance wasn't offensive, however, and he closed his eyes, growing drowsy …

A sudden gust of chill wind raised gooseflesh along his exposed skin. He opened his eyes with a start. There were no windows in this room, no shutters that the storm could have blown inward.

The candle's flame flickered once, twice more, then extinguished as if by a hidden breath.

But the room was not cast into darkness.

His heart pounding heavy with shock, he looked toward the mirror …

… that now glowed with muted light.

He scrambled up from the chaise and stared, backing up. No, he did not imagine it. A dim white light reflected from the mirror's glass ... God, he must be dreaming. Of course, that was it. The wine was off and now he was paying for his mistake.

_Chriiiii-stiiiine …_

The low, ghostly wail of a man's deep voice came from beyond the mirror, chilling his blood.

_Come to me, my Angel of Muuuusic ..._

De Galle let out a hoarse, strangled cry and raced from the room and down the corridor.

_An … gel of Mu … sic … friend … and phan ..tom …se …cret … and strange … an … gel _…

Faint and slow, a woman's voice, clear as a distant bell and just as phantasmal as the mirror's being, sang through the dark corridor.

**COME TO ME!**

De Galle screamed at the man's ghostly bellow, dark and fierce. It was followed by the woman's ghostly laughter, teasing and provocative – and he flew into something solid.

Fiery pain throbbed through his face and shoulders.

"Monsieur!" Footsteps raced down the corridor, the glow of a candle growing brighter, and he recognized the woman who had given him entrance into this godforsaken place. "What has happened?"

He saw also the wall he'd run into, tasted metal and wiped his mouth of something warm and wet. In the light of the flame, he spotted blood on his fingers. He unleashed his fledgling terror in accusation. "Where have you hidden it, woman?"

"Hidden what?"

"Do not play me for a fool – the PHONOGRAPH!" he cursed and spit out blood onto the floor. "Do not think THIS will scare me away from doing my job, Madame!"

"Wh-what are you talking about?"

"Those damned voices, of course! But tell me, how did you make the mirror glow? A strategically placed lantern perhaps? Hidden behind the mirror somehow?"

In the dim light, her face achieved the color of parchment. "M-mirror? What mirror? What voices?"

"In THERE!" He threw his arm back, pointing to the door of the dressing room, now wide open. The interior again appeared dark.

Her eyes bugged as she looked in that direction, then turned to him. "You went _in there?_ A foolish, mistake, monsieur! That is _their_ territory! And _he_ does not tolerate trespassers."

"He …? _He?_ _Who the__ HELL __is __HE?_**"**

"THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA!"

He'd had enough bizarre talk of ghosts. They were for small children and silly women.

"_Really_, Madame …"

"It's true," she insisted, her words low and emphatic. "Tell me, monsieur, have you never heard the legend?" She shook her head a little in disbelief. "Everyone in Paris has heard the legend …"

"What legend?"

She looked around fearfully as if the shadows might come to life. "Come. And I will tell you."

He followed her down another corridor, into a sitting room he assumed was her own. She motioned him to sit in one of two upholstered chairs there and turned up a kerosene lantern, glancing quickly toward the doorway, as if she'd heard a noise and feared someone would appear. Hurriedly she closed the door and turned the key in the lock. She stood, silent, while lightning madly flickered from the one blood-colored window, the resounding boom of thunder rattling its panes.

At last she turned.

"Listen well, monsieur." She spoke slowly. "For the tale that I will tell you is quite shocking but true; a tale beyond your wildest imagination. One that would not be believed and few souls know in its entirety ... Take care not to consider it lightly, for it is a dark tale of a forbidden love, tragic and fantastic, obsessive and wild … a love that could not and would not die ... but the toll it exacted was dreadful indeed ..." She shivered, rubbing her arms as she moved to sit across from him.

"_What bloody tale?_"

She looked at him then, her dark eyes secretive and mysterious. A small smile played about her mouth.

"The tale, monsieur, of the legendary Phantom of the Opera and his enchanting Angel of Music. A tale that began on a night much like this one, many, many winters ago ..."

**xXx**


	2. Chapter 2

**Part I**

**I**

**_Northern England_**

**_In the winter of 1854_**

.

A fierce burst of lightning lit up the casement windows. A huge rumble of thunder followed, so close, it seemed to shake even the stones of the walls and the floor, making the tiny girl perched near the panes let out a terrified squeal. Yet she moved not from her vigil; nor did she lift her small hands from the pebbled glass.

"Christine!" The matronly housekeeper balled her fists on her hips. "Come away from that window at once!"

She shook her head rebelliously, her dark curls bouncing around her shoulders. "I know Papa will come tonight, Berta! I just _know_ it!"

"Hmph, or more likely ye'll be roasted to a pulp when the lightin' comes flyin' your way, you naughty child." But her words came grudging and tempered with love for the saucy young mistress of the house.

"Christine, you're nothing but a trial," the young master said in a bored tone as he finished off his leg of mutton.

She wrinkled her nose at her older cousin, wishing the lightning would fry him!

Suddenly she squealed again, though no thunder roared as the herald to her cry. She scooted off the chair and ran for the door, struggled to open it, then threw it wide.

"_Papa! Papa! Papa!_"

A torrential spattering of rain blew inside, driven by the fierce wind.

"Saints above," Berta cried, "Close that door – ye'll be drenched!"

But Christine did not hear. She was already running for the carriage that had stopped in the courtyard. Joseph hurried to unharnass the horses and take them to the stables, as she ran to her father and threw her arms around his cloaked figure. Something bulky and hard met with her chest, surprising her.

"What have you brought me, Papa! Oh, _what have you brought me?_"

"Christine, you shouldn't be out in this rain! Hurry inside, missy, before you catch your death."

Even her Papa's stern words didn't quench her excitement, for she had felt the object beneath his cape move! The lump was too large for a kitten and too small for a horse ... what other animal was there for which she had ever asked?

Her father hurried with her inside, moving with difficulty. Berta closed the door behind them.

"Christine, foolish child, when will ye learn to mind?" she muttered, trying to dry her wet curls with a strip of toweling, but Christine would have none of it. She moved away, clinging to her papa's arm concealed beneath the very bulky front of his cloak.

"Show me, Papa! Oh please, _please_ show me!"

"Very well, Christine, calm down now, and do not frighten him. I fear he has had a bad experience."

"He?"

Her father opened his long cloak and Christine blinked. A thin boy, looking perhaps three years older than she, clung to his middle. His wet dark hair grew long and ragged, dripping to his jaw, and his eyes were a startling shade of gold that seemed to look right through her. But what made her gape was the dirty canvas tied around most of the right half of his face with only a hole where his other eye stared.

"A _GYPSY!_" Henri barked, abandoning his leg of mutton as he jumped to his feet. "Uncle Gustave, why'd you bring a filthy gypsy to our home?"

"Silence, Henri," her papa reprimanded harshly. "I expect you to treat him with kindness. You should not speak ill of those less fortunate than yourself. God rewards those who are merciful to those in want."

Henri sneered behind her Papa's back, and Christine stuck out her tongue at him then turned to look at the boy.

"I'm Christine Daae. What's your name?"

He recoiled and buried his face in her Papa's shirt.

Christine frowned. A kitten might have been friendlier.

"There, boy, it's all right. You're safe now." Her Papa unclasped the gypsy's arms from around his back where they clung, and then his legs from around his hips, until he stood on his bare feet. He wore a long loose shirt, soiled and torn. His limbs were long, his trousers tattered at the knees. He stood much taller than she did. Maybe he was older than her by three years. She had to tilt her head up to look at him.

He quickly glanced away, into the flames.

Her papa led him with a hand to his shoulder to the hearthstone. "Come and warm yourself by the fire. Berta will give you something to eat." The boy went, unresisting, but remained silent. Papa nodded to the housekeeper and she hurried to ladle soup from the big iron pot hanging over the fire as the boy sat down near the hearth.

Christine watched the gypsy curiously as Berta brought him a dish. He grabbed it in hands that shook. The soup must have been hot due to the steam, but he brought it to his mouth and gobbled it down as if he'd not eaten in days. As skinny as he was, maybe he hadn't.

Her father said a quiet blessing and ate in silence. Christine was surprised when he didn't chastise the boy for his bad manners, as he always did to Henri. Henri glared the whole time at the boy, but the boy did not look at him once.

"Berta, see about making him a bed by the fire until we find more suitable arrangements," Papa said as he stood from the table. "I fear these old bones cannot travel such long distances anymore. I am most weary and ready to retire."

"Is he to stay here then?" Henri asked with disdain. "Would he not be better housed in the servant's quarters? Or perhaps the stables?"

Her Papa frowned at her cousin. "He will live here, with us, as a member of the family."

"But Uncle Gustave –"

"Did I not make myself clear, Henri?" Her Papa's thick brows beetled over eyes that had grown stern. Even Christine knew better than to cross Papa when he looked like that.

Henri bowed his head, scowling. "Yes, sir."

Christine hated to see her Papa upset. She jumped up and hurried around the table to him. "Did the kintucter like your music, Papa?"

He smiled gently. "The conductor was pleased, but sadly there was no need for a second violin in his orchestra. The position had already been filled by the time I arrived."

She hugged him fiercely. "You'll find work again, Papa. You play so wonderfully well! And one day, I'll sing on stage with you."

Henri snorted.

"I will so!" She glared at him and lifted her chin high. "My Angel of Music will come visit and gift me with a special voice, more lovely than anyone else's in all of England, in all of the world. And he will teach me – just you wait and see!"

"Now, now ..." Her father wearily patted her head. "You must be good and not too prideful, my Little Lotte, for the blessed Angel to come visit you."

She smiled in delight at hearing the nickname from her favorite tale and what she had often begged him to call her. "I love you so much, Papa!" She reached up and he bent down so she could wrap her arms around his neck and kiss his whiskery cheek.

"Be kind to the boy," he whispered, "make me proud."

She nodded and glanced toward the table where he sat.

"That's my good girl."

Once her father disappeared upstairs, and Berta went to see about bedding, Christine drew closer to the gypsy. His eyes darted her way.

She smiled.

He again looked into the fire, his strange eyes seeming to take on the color of the flames.

She sighed and took the chair next to his.

Immediately he jumped up and backed away.

Henri stretched out his foot and tripped him. The boy went sailing backward, almost smacking his head on the hearthstone.

"Clumsy oaf."

"That _wasn't_ nice, Henri!" Christine jumped up from her chair and put her hands on her hips, glaring at her cousin. "Papa said we should be kind."

Neither of the boys paid her any mind. The gypsy lay on his back, resting his weight on his arms, but he didn't move or say a word. Henri frowned and stood up, towering over him. He looked older than the gypsy and was bigger as well.

"Can you not speak? Are you a mute?" he barked. "Have you no tongue in your head?"

The gypsy remained silent, vexing Henri further.

"What DO you hide beneath that scrap of cloth, _boy_?" Henri sneered. "I want to see!" He made as if to pounce, but the flats of the boy's feet shot out, kicking him hard in his fleshy groin and sending him flying backward.

"Now you asked for it, _gypsy cur!_" he growled as he awkwardly pulled himself up from the floor.

Henri dropped on the boy with his arm swinging, his fist connecting with the boy's face.

Christine rushed to Henri, where he continued to beat the gypsy by the fire. The boy tried to block his punches but didn't fight back.

"STOP IT!**" **she screamed. "YOU'RE HURTING HIM!**"**

She threw her tiny body on Henri's back, pounding his shoulders and head with her little fists. He shook her off like a puppy and she came at him again, remembering what she'd seen dogs do in a fight. She bit his ear until she tasted blood.

He yowled in pain then whirled and backhanded her across the face, so hard, he sent her whimpering and sprawling to the flagstones.

An inhuman growl erupted from the hearth as the boy lunged at Henri and attacked, straddling his fat stomach as his fists pummeled his doughy face.

"Lord above and saints be merciful – what the devil is going on in here!" Berta ran into the room, threw up her hands in shock at the sight, and then hurried to pull the boy off Henri. She glared at both of them.

"Well?" she demanded.

"It's **_his fault_**_!_" Henri struggled to stand, his eye blackened, blood trickling from his mouth as he pointed at the boy, who scooted away, also wiping blood from his lip. "**_He_** **_started it_**_!"_

"**_He_** **_did not_**_!"_ Christine stood up from the floor, her legs shaking, her cheek throbbing from the blow and smarting like fire burned it.

Berta looked at her face. Shock then anger filled her eyes. "Christine, **_who_** hit you?" she barked.

"**_Henri did!_**"

Berta grabbed her cousin by the ear and he let out a yowl. "You do **_not_** fight and you do **_not_ **hit girls, Master Henri! I should put ye in the barn with the animals, but with this storm I'll not step foot outside and risk the banshees comin' to claim my soul. To your room with you, and you'll stay there till daybreak." She pulled him by the ear and up the stairs.

Christine rubbed her cheek and glared at her cousin as she watched them go then looked back at the boy. Still on the floor, he stared at her, his feet flat on the stones, his back against the hearth wall. His hands were pressed down on the ground as if to boost himself up and run away at any moment. His face looked worse than hers felt, and she wasn't bleeding. She moved to fetch her napkin from the table and wet it from a bucket of water Berta had left by the hearth.

She walked toward him. He didn't back away this time, and she knelt beside where he sat. His strange eyes never left hers. This close by the fire, in the gold she could see faint glimmers of green and reddish brown. Never had she seen eyes such a color.

"Your mouth is hurt," she said putting the bunched, wet cloth there and wiping away the blood. "This will make it feel better. It's what Berta does when I fall down and get hurt." She saw red on the cloth covering his face. "You're bleeding there too." She snatched away the cloth that had been loosened in the fight before he realized what she was doing.

Her eyes went wide in horror and she gasped, recoiling as she fell backward to land on her palms. He clapped a hand over that part of his face with a little cry and hurriedly scuttled away to the corner until his bony shoulders came flush against the wall.

Christine's heart pounded like the rain against the windows. Never had she seen such a face! It was ... hardly a face. There was a ridge of mottled flesh above where an eyebrow should be, and his cheekbone was almost visible through his thinner skin beneath his eye. That side of his nose barely existed, and red and blue bumpy lines ran along the front of his skull where patches of hair did not grow!

Fear and dread shone from the one golden eye he had turned her way and she realized with surprise that he was more afraid of her than she was of him. She remembered Papa's parting words to her. She also remembered how this gypsy boy attacked Henri when Henri hit her.

She bit her lip hard and made a decision. "Don't be frightened." Crawling to him, she moved slowly, until she came up beside him. She sat back on her heels and held out both cloths. With a trembling hand he snatched them from her. The wet one he pressed to his mouth. The cloth that had masked him he held tightly against his brow.

Papa always said honesty was golden.

"Your face is ugly," she said. "But I think Henri's is uglier."

His lip turned up the barest fraction at the corner she could see. His eyes, still uncertain, lost some of their fear.

"What's your name?"

"E-Erik," he whispered hoarsely.

She nodded and her hands clasped her knees. "Papa plays the violin, and he told me I sing like an angel. Would you like me to sing for you some time? I know lots of pretty songs."

He barely nodded.

"Mama sang, and she danced, too. But she died when I was very little. I'm five now but soon will be six. We used to live in Sweden. Then we came here. This was my uncle's house, but he died too." She stretched out her small legs and leaned with her back against the wall, next to him. "Have you been out on the moors? I like it there. I like to sing as loud as I can to the sky, where only God can hear, and the fairies, of course. And the Angel of Music. He's going to come visit me someday. Oh, and there's a place where the stones stand so high all around that your words come rushing back to you! When it stops raining, I'll take you there ..."

.

**xXx**

.

"Erik!" Christine could barely contain her excitement as she hurried up the stairs and to the entrance of his gable room. "_Erik!_ Come and see!"

He mumbled something she couldn't understand as he sat at his small desk, scribbling something on parchment. Impatient for him to join her, she rushed his way and grabbed his arm, tugging him.

"_Come on!_"

"Christine! I'm trying to write." His words were stern, but she saw the flicker of his smile.

"You can work on your song later. You MUST see what Papa just had delivered!"

Besides the academic lessons Christine took with him, over the years her Papa had taught Erik how to read music, and he could now even play her Papa's violin! He had discovered a skill for the arts that impressed Papa, who was a great musician, and he took Erik under his wing. Now he was trying to write his own composition … when he wasn't toying with his strange, little inventions. She asked him about those too, once, and he warned her never to touch them, because they could lop her finger right off! He had smiled then, rather mysteriously, and she was never sure if he was teasing or not. But she liked it when he performed his magic for her, pulling an egg or coin from behind her ear, or making something appear or disappear from his hand in the blink of an eye! The sexton called Erik's tricks evil, but Christine thought them wonderful.

"I promise, you'll like it," Christine tempted in a coaxing voice. "Come on ... pleeeeasse."

Erik threw down the quill pen. "Oh, alright," he groused, but Christine noticed he didn't seem too upset by her wheedling. She led him to the parlor by the hand and smiled when she saw the light of interest shine brightly in his eyes, as she had known it would.

"Isn't it grand?" Christine pirouetted over to the glossy small piano. "Papa is giving violin lessons to the de Chagny boy at The Grange, but he said he doesn't have the talent for it," she giggled, "not like you do. Instead of regular pay, Papa asked for this. They no longer use it, it belonged to their daughter who died and it was just sitting in an old room getting dusty. Can you imagine?" She watched him carefully, seeing the desire light his features. "Go on. Try it. It's alright."

He glanced at her before moving to the bench. It could barely seat two people, but she moved to join him regardless. She sat by his side without the black silk cloth he kept tied around his face, so she could watch every one of his expressions.

"Now that I'm ten, Papa says I must further develop my musical training."

His dark eyebrow lifted. "I thought you wished to be a dancer."

She wrinkled her nose at him. "You _know_ what I really wish is to be a singer; don't tease, Erik. But … I think I want to be a dancer when I don't sing. Papa can't send me to ballet school at present – but really, I don't wish to go, because then I'd have to leave The Heights and we couldn't play together on the moors. And I would miss that dearly. But he says I have natural grace, like Mama did, and could probably be a dancer someday."

His lips quirked in that wry way of his. "Make up your mind, Christine, a dancer or a singer. Which will it be?"

"Maybe I'll be both."

He laughed.

"I can, you know!"

His mood became solemn as he looked at her. Today his eyes seemed more green than golden, like the grass growing on the heath. They often changed from one color to the other, as if by magic, sometimes becoming both colors at once. "Yes, _you_ probably could."

Satisfied by his response, she continued. "Papa wants me to learn to play this, since I'm so horrid on the violin."

She watched his hand hover tentatively over the keys, his long fingers caressing them. She rested her much smaller hand on the keyboard, next to his, in the same fashion. His skin was darker than hers, which was bluish white like cream, but his wasn't brown like gypsies she'd seen from a distance, either. The sun, when it did choose to come out from the clouds, had darkened his skin a light brown. Hers only freckled or burned, usually her nose and cheeks, which distressed her to no end.

"Do you wish to learn to play, Erik?"

He hesitated then nodded.

Her smile was bright. "Then you should. Papa says anyone who wants to learn should be allowed to, if they have skill. And you're so wonderful with music and so smart, you'll probably be able to play this as easily as you do everything else."

He smiled at her. "If I learn to play, will you sing for me?"

"Of course. I'll always sing for you."

She watched him pick out notes, his slender fingers touching the keys as if they were born to them.

"Erik?"

"Hm?" He plunked out a chord.

"If you could live anywhere but here, where would you go?"

His brow drew in toward the cloth as he frowned. At first she didn't think he would answer.

"France."

His reply surprised her. He had never mentioned the country before.

"Why France?"

He plunked a few more notes.

"I was told that is where my mama is from."

"Oh." She thought about that a moment. "And your papa?"

The notes plunked harsher than before.

"I don't know where he is from. Maybe hell."

She hated when he got so dour and temperamental as he sometimes did. She continued to watch his hand as he strung together a series of beautiful sounding chords.

"Erik?"

"Yes?" His reply was terse.

"How come you never call me Little Lotte?"

His hand stilled and he looked at her. "Your name is Christine."

"Yes, but—"

"There are no such things as angels."

"But –"

"Only demons."

"That's not tr –"

"And there is _no God!_"

Tears rimmed her lashes.

"If what you say is true," she whispered, "there's no heaven either."

He gave a curt nod, his eyes hard.

"So tell me then, where is _my_ _mama?_" The tears rolled down to her jaw.

He did not answer.

She flew up from the bench and ran outside and away from the house, ran toward the freedom of the moors, ran until she had no breath left in her body and collapsed to her knees in the wild grasses. He was wrong. She knew it. He must be wrong … he must be … he must be … he _must_ _be … _

Panting for breath, she looked up at the sky and the stars just appearing. There had to be a heaven up there somewhere … If there wasn't … then all of what her Papa told her was a lie, and he wouldn't lie to her. He never lied … but then, Erik never lied to her either. And he was her dearest friend … her only friend.

Her heart torn, Christine sat in the grass and cried until there were no tears left. When the night grew darker and the moon disappeared behind a cloud, she hastened back to the manor but saw no sign of him. He no longer sat at the piano and he wasn't in the kitchen, or the main room, or in his garret room either. Distressed, she moved down the corridor and into her room. A sprig of wildflowers from the heath lay upon her pillow, and with it, a note crafted in Erik's unique hand, the letters both domineering and artistic.

_I have not seen God, but you are here._

_I have not known angels, but I see you._

_Perhaps, if there is a heaven,_

_There is also an Angel of Music. _

_It is my hope that one day you shall find him._

_~Erik_

Christine brought the note to her heart and held it there, smiling through her tears.

**xXx**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews and critiques! :) Please keep them coming.**

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**II**

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"Stop running … so fast! … You're not … playing … _fair!_" Christine called out breathlessly to her friend as she chased him over the wild and windy barren hill. He had earlier diverted her attention from their race to their favorite spot by tugging her scarf over her eyes and stealing a head start – as if he needed one!

Erik jumped atop a flat gray boulder, and grinned down at her. "Ah, but my Little Angel, when have I ever played fair?" He jumped down like a cat, his body long and limber as he again raced for the top of the hill of tall stones, this time turning backward as he ran, taunting her. "Come, Christine! I thought you wanted to be a dancer. You must run long distances to work those flaccid muscles."

"Ohhh!" She growled, wondering how he didn't fall over his own feet when he did that.

But he _never_ fell, and he _always_ won. Of course, he was a good four or five years older, she guessed, though no one really knew since he didn't even know his true age. But her legs had grown longer now that she'd turned twelve, and they were most certainly _not_ flaccid!

Now that the snows had finally melted and winter no longer kept them bound indoors, she could run almost as fast as he could. Though he would always be taller, especially if he kept growing, as he did each year that passed. While she was still much too short, and that was so unfair.

"I . . .would … much rather be . . . a singer," she called as she tried to pick up speed.

"What's that?" he cupped a hand to his ear. "I can't understand you when you keep gasping for breath." He laughed and whirled back around.

Infuriating! That's what he was. Why did he never seem to lose his own breath, no matter how long or hard or fast he ran? Of course, she knew he did, but right now he seemed more wildcat than human.

He stopped abruptly near a large cluster of rocks they usually climbed to reach the summit. With a burst of speed she crossed the distance, throwing her slight weight against his back and her arms around his torso, but he was too strong to tackle to the ground and she only caused him to stumble forward a step.

He had grown very still.

"What is it?" She moved around him to look at his eye, which was both somber and angry behind the eye-hole of the cloth tied around his face, then dropped her gaze toward the ground where he stared.

"Oh, look!" she breathed in delight.

A nest of baby animals, pink and without fur, nestled together in the protective crevasse of the flat stones for warmth. She wasn't sure what they were, they were too tiny to tell, but she thought they might be hares. A short distance apart from them, another baby lay, smaller and shriveled, not as plump as the others. The mama was nowhere in sight.

"I hope she didn't … get eaten by a wolf," Christine panted, not paying attention to Erik who bent to the ground. He stood quickly. She looked up then gasped.

"_Erik_ – _no!_" She grabbed his arm with both hands, trying to keep him from hurling a fist-sized stone at the poor little creature.

"Why not?" he asked bitterly. "Its mother doesn't want it. See how it lies apart from the others? Unprotected. Alone. Because it's ugly. _A FREAK_." His mouth pulled into a thin, angry line. "It doesn't deserve to live."

"It doesn't deserve to die either!"

"It would be kinder to the creature to kill it," he growled.

"How can you say that?" she cried. "How can you be so mean?"

"_Because I'm __**the devil's child**__, that's why!_"

"STOP IT! I don't care what they called you at that stupid gypsy carnival. You're no such thing! You're my friend!"

He wrenched his arm away from her and brought it higher and back to hurl the rock.

"**NO!"** she screamed, rushing at him.

He quickly sidestepped her then threw the rock with a vengeance. It landed a foot away from the poor little animal. She knew had Erik wanted to, he could have easily killed the creature. His aim was never off.

He backed away, tears filling his eyes that were now wild and distraught. He clapped his hands to the sides of his head, clutching fistfuls of hair, as if past memories were now his tormentors. What she could see of his face contorted in agonized fury, his eyes squeezing shut.

"Erik?" she whispered, frightened and worried by his strange behavior.

"AGGGHHH! DAMN YOU FOR WHAT YOU DID TO ME!"

With a hoarse, animalistic cry, he fled from her as if he'd not heard her quiet question and somehow she knew his curse hadn't been directed toward her.

"Erik – wait! PLEASE, WAIT…! **STOP!**"

Christine ran after him, still exhausted from their earlier run. **"**_**Please, stop!**_**"** Her voice came raspy. Still she ran until her legs trembled so badly that she fell. On hands and knees, she watched him flee down the rocky hill as if the ghost hounds of hell were nipping at his heels. And maybe they were. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

"_ERR-IIIIK!"_

A sudden storm split the afternoon sky, now boiling with dark clouds, and the rain fell in torrents. She knelt on the sodden earth, her hair plastered to her face, her tears mixing with the rain.

"_Oh, Erik_," she sobbed in a whisper, dropping her head forward in defeat.

Slowly, she stood and walked back to the little nest. She took the poor, withered, hairless gray creature and tucked him inside her bodice, pulling her coat tighter, trying to keep him warm against her skin though he was so cold. Silent and forlorn, she trudged down the hill. The rain had lessened by the time she approached the gates leading into the courtyard. A strange horse and carriage stood in front of the doors. She was halfway across the pavement when one of them suddenly opened.

Berta came running from the house, despite the rain and her fear of banshees, and embraced her, smothering her in her hold. "Christine, Oh, Christine – my poor dear child!"

"What is it, Berta?" Fear clutched her heart. "Is it Erik?"

"Erik? No, child. It's ..." Tears swam in the housekeeper's eyes. "It's your father ... His heart. It was so good, but it just grew tired and gave out. He's ..."

"Pa -pa ...?" Christine's eyes widened in horror as she slowly called out for him. Not wanting to hear more, she backed away from her old nursemaid in disbelief, ignoring her, then turned and bolted for the door.

"Pa-pa?**"**

He wasn't in the main room or in the kitchen or in the parlor or in his library.

"_**PA-PA?**_"

She ran upstairs and found him lying in his bed. A strange man with thick black whiskers and long sideburns stood inside the room. "Papa?" she whispered, almost afraid to go near as she glanced at the unsmiling stranger then back at her father. His face was the color of the ashes in the hearth.

"Come here, my Little Lotte." His grating voice didn't sound like himself either, but his eyes were Papa's, gentle, brown and caring, and she ran to the bed, pressing herself against him.

"You must promise me … you will be a good girl." His hand trembled as he gently stroked her head. "I must go … to be with your mother."

"_Go?_ No, Papa! _Why_?" Tears trickled down her face as she looked at him. "I don't want you to go!"

"Shh. There now. You must be brave and strong … and if you are very good … I will send you the Angel of Music …"

"Papa – no. Papa, please don't go, please don't leave me," she wailed quietly, again and again, burying her face in his shirt.

Suddenly his body stiffened as hard as a board and he let out a strangled gasp. "Papa?" She looked at his face. His eyes were turned toward the ceiling in pain and did not blink.

"Get her out of here," she heard the strange man order gruffly.

Berta's hands went to her shoulders, pulling her away.

"**NO!**" She screamed and broke from her hold, running back for the bed, falling to the mattress to hug her father's still body. "No, Papa … NO! … Papa … Papa, come back! Stay with me, PLEASE stay with me," she whimpered.

The strange man's arms roughly pulled her away. Suddenly she found herself outside Papa's room with the door shut in her face. She gripped the latch and pushed it down but it wouldn't budge. She screamed until her throat burned and pummeled her fists against the wood until her hands stung, but they wouldn't let her back inside. She turned to see Henri watching. He didn't glare or smirk, but his pig eyes were stony and cruel.

In despair, she whirled and ran down the stairs and outside the manor, uncaring of the rain that again fell harder, running as fast as she could until her lungs burned, toward the stables, running until she pitched forward in a pile of hay and there, curled up into a ball.

Remembering the poor little hare, she fished him from her bodice. He too, was gray, as gray as Papa's face, and as still and cold as before. With a shaky hand, she laid him down gently and covered him with a blanket of hay. "I-I'm so s-s-sorry … P-p-papa will t-take care of you now," she whispered. "H-he takes care of all God's c-creatures." Then she covered her face with both hands and wept, her entire body shaking.

A large gentle hand grasped her shoulder from behind.

"Christine …" His voice came quiet, tinged with sorrow.

Whirling around, she threw herself into Erik's arms.

"N-n-never go a-away," she begged him, her voice trembling as her body shook with the chill and with grief. She moved her face against his chest to look up at him. "P-promise me, Erik, n-n-never leave me! _P-p-p-promise me_ . . ." She buried her face in his wet shirt that smelled of his scent and the wind and the rain and the moors. "I-if you do, I'll die too."

"I'm here, my Little Angel," he whispered against her ear, his hand stroking her dripping hair as he embraced her just as tightly. "I'm here …"

She wept violently against his chest, taking comfort in him as she burrowed in his strength.

Only later did she realize he never promised.

**xXx**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews! A note so as not to confuse: the chapter headings not matching with Fanfiction's was confusing to me- I replaced a chapter last night and almost changed out the wrong chapter. 0_0 ) So to match up with Fanfiction, this is chapter 3 & 4- haha … ****Again, this is using WH as backstory, but**** will always have a strong Phantom feel, more so as story progresses and a lot of my own ideas blended in as well ...**** as you no doubt have seen by now, my Christine has a lot of fire and spirit, almost an equal to Erik's. They've grown up with only themselves for companions & are alike in many ways, both in the good and in the bad …**

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**(III) IV**

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"Do you ever wonder what the future will hold for us?" Christine lay beside Erik in the hayloft, her head on his shoulder, and stared up through the cracks of the roof at the stars. A lantern hung from a peg on the wall nearby, its sole, steady flame their only light.

"What do you mean?"

She blew out an impatient breath. "Oh, I don't know. Just what life will be like … perhaps … a year from this night?" She rolled to her side, propping her head on her hand. "I will likely be married. And when I do marry, I will give to my husband – who will be strong and wild and passionate and tender – not only my body, for it will become his. But he shall also have my soul. The heart can be fickle but the soul is everlasting. That is what marriage should be, the giving of one's soul. He will give me his and I will give him mine. But the two of us must be of like mind before I should ever agree to marry him."

She watched him closely, studying the lean features of his face nearest her, the side not covered by the cloth. He had a nice face, the part that could be seen, and his thick hair, a rich sable brown with dark golden highlights, had grown to reach his shoulders. His body was hard and lean with whipcord strength, more so since her cruel cousin sent Erik to live in the barn to work as a stable hand, the day after Papa's funeral. At least he'd let him stay at The Heights as a servant. Henri never considered Erik a member of the family, but Christine still took advantage of every opportunity to be with him. Through the past years they'd become inseparable, though Henri didn't approve of her spending time with him and often told her so.

"Well?" she insisted. "Have you nothing to say in reply?"

"You read too many gothic novels."

"You dare scorn matters of the heart?"

"You said the heart was fickle."

She smacked his shoulder, curbing a smile at seeing his own. "Now you mock me. You know what I meant … Is that _all_ you have to say?"

He rolled his eyes. "You are only fifteen ..."

"—Two weeks shy of being sixteen!"

"… and still a child," he finished, as though she'd not spoken.

"Oh, you think so? A child, am I?" She sat up in a huff, pushing her chest out and shoulders back. "Tell me, _you_ – who Papa alleged to have such great genius – does THIS look like the form of _a_ _child?_"

She sensed he fought it, but his golden eyes rolled toward her. He stared at her bodice, at the white half globes of her breasts now heaving against the frills of her square neckline with each indignant breath she took, and she almost wished she'd not said a word. His eyes on her bare flesh made her feel strangely … faint … made her feel emotions in the pit of her stomach that disturbed her. He glanced away, looking back up at the stars.

"We shouldn't be discussing such matters," he grunted.

His swift disinterest stiffened her resolve and provoked her exasperation. "Why not? You cannot ignore time, Erik. It passes as surely as the seasons give way to new ones … we grow older. And things … change … like the seasons …"

She leaned closer toward him and looked at his lips, the bottom one a little fuller than the top. They had a slight natural curl at the corners, an almost mocking tilt as if he taunted the world and all who were in it. His mouth suited him.

Her heart began to beat unevenly. "Have you ever wondered what it would feel like?"

"What?"

"To kiss."

His eyes closed, as if to shut her out. "You should return to the house now."

At his terse words, she grew angry. "I _don't want_ to return to the house. I _want_ to stay here, with you."

"Then you should behave."

"BEHAVE?" she snorted a disbelieving laugh. "_This,_ coming from _you?_ You're the one who taught me naughty and wild are so much more exhilarating."

"You have _always_ been wild," he growled. "I never taught you, and as for naughty ..."

"Well, _I_ have wondered," she interrupted, moistening her lips with her tongue. "I have often wondered, and I grow weary of wondering."

Before she lost courage or he could move away, she pressed her mouth lightly to his. His lips were shut tight, unyielding, but that only made her more determined. She pressed harder, her mouth opening with the effort, and her tongue brushed against him. He gasped and suddenly she found herself the slightest bit inside. Nervous, she found she couldn't move for breathless seconds. Neither did he. More curious than uncertain she tentatively pushed her tongue deeper until it touched his. His lips softened and an intense warmth shot through her like she'd never known. Her hands reached up to cup his face.

He almost bit her tongue off as fast as he pushed her away and clapped a hand to the cloth that was still tied firmly in place.

"Damn it, Erik! I wish you would stop doing that. It's not like I haven't seen before!"

What few times he let her, always by accident and never on his own initiative.

"Why, Christine? Are you curious to see the monster you kissed? Do you wish to stare at the freak like those at the sideshow did?"

"Ohhh! How can you even say such things to me? I HATE you when you talk like that!"

She hit him hard then, hit him with both her fists, moving over him as he blocked her wild punches, her hands taking turns pummeling him and reaching for his face, her fingers like claws. She would pull that horrible cloth away if it was _the_ _last_ _thing_ she did! He was just as determined not to let her, and he was also much stronger.

They struggled in the hay. Soon she was on her back, his hands gripped around her wrists, both of them breathing hard and fast as he now leaned over her, his knees straddling her hips.

They glared into each other's eyes, his golden fire, hers dark and stormy.

"Why, Christine?" he rasped.

"Why do I hate you?" she sneered.

"Why do you wish to see?"

"For your information, I wasn't trying to pull the stupid thing away. I was only trying to touch your face, you big lout!"

His eyes flickered. "Why?" he asked more quietly, looking down at her mouth. "Why should you want to . . ."

"Why do you think? Because I lo –"

And suddenly Erik's mouth was on hers, silencing her and kissing her with a new frenzy that took her very breath. Now _his_ tongue pushed into _her_ mouth, and she gasped, curling her tongue against his then darting away as he did, playing a passionate game of cat and mouse as they experimented, until their tongues finally, firmly met and slowly danced around each other, all of it making her dizzy though she lay on her back. His hard chest pressed against hers. Her bodice felt tighter, her breasts straining against the material with each rapid, constricted breath. Her body grew warmer, and just when she thought she might float away or burn to a crisp he tore his mouth from hers.

They gasped for air – as if they'd run all the way from The Heights to the top of the summit – and looked into each other's eyes. Suddenly Erik flung himself from her, leaving Christine to stare at the roof as she tried to make sense of what happened.

Cautiously she sat up. He sat with his back to her.

"Erik?"

"_Don't say what you don't mean, Christine._" His voice was angry. "_**Ever!**_"

"I didn't! I **never do** – not with you!"

He shuffled through his box and the papers she had sneaked out of the house to give him.

"What are you …you're _COMPOSING? NOW?"_

Whenever he got upset he turned to his music.

His shoulders stiffened but he didn't turn to look at her. "Go back to bed, Christine. Go back to the house. It's late."

Her mouth thinned at his bossiness. She would not be pushed away like a child!

"I'm not tired." She scooted toward the edge of the loft, rustling through the hay toward the ladder. "I think I fancy a ride on the moors."

He was by her side in a flash, his hand gripping her arm to stop her. "The night is too dark."

She pulled her brows down at such an odd statement. "When has that curbed my desires before? Or yours?"

"You shun the darkness ..."

"—There _is_ a moon."

"… and it looks as if it may rain."

"Has it not rained nearly every day this week?"

He compressed his lips. "You'll break your fool neck!"

"I never have before."

"Damn it, Christine! You cannot go riding alone in the night!"

"Then come with me," she said, smiling sweetly.

He threw his papers down in the box and she knew she had won. "One day, your folly will be the death of both of us," he growled.

"Perhaps. But at least such folly would ensure that _we will_ be together forever. Otherwise, I shall have to haunt you. Or you will have to haunt me."

She laughed lightly, moved a few rungs down the ladder then looked up at him as he pulled on his boots.

"Erik …?"

"_WHAT?_" He snarled, concentrating on his task.

"About wondering what it would feel like …"

He froze but didn't look at her.

"I only wonder why we didn't do it sooner."

Her face warming with a strange sort of exhilarating shyness, she moved down the ladder and toward the stalls, pleased when he soon joined her. His temper had at least calmed, though his manner became strangely silent.

**xXx**

The wild wind of the moors blew Christine's thick mass of tight curls from her face, pressing her skirts to her body as they flew out behind her. The stars swept through the wispy gray clouds above and she spun slowly around, her arms held out, her eyes closing, until the wind did not steal her music. With all that was within her, she lifted her voice in pure song to the heavens, her voice haunting in the night as it echoed back to her off the tall circle of rocks.

_Think of me,_

_Think of me waking, silent and resigned,_

_Imagine me, trying too hard to put you from my mind,_

_Recall those days, look back on all those times,_

_Think of the things we'll never do,_

_There will never be a day when I won't think of you!_

She opened her eyes to find Erik standing right before her. Her long hair and skirts whipped around both of them in the tempestuous wind.

"You have the voice of an angel," he said, his eyes adoring as his long fingers lightly circled her throat in a caress, so feather-light, it made her heart pound.

"I thought you didn't believe in angels."

"I believe in you."

She stared up into his eyes, which glowed darkly golden in the night, the same breathlessness she felt from earlier constricting her chest.

"And Christine? I, too, have wondered …"

She inhaled a soft breath at his frank admission that came quietly before his lips grazed her own. Her hand flew up to circle the back of his neck and keep him there. Gently he nibbled her lower lip then pressed in harder. Their kiss grew deep, his arms encircling her in his strong hold, and trembling again she held on to him so as not to fall.

"Tell me, Erik," she gasped, when they paused for breath, a sudden strange and frightening sense that she would lose him as she lost her mama and papa causing her to clutch his shirt firmly at the shoulders. "Tell me that all will be well. That things will never change between us."

"Yet, as you have said, time changes all things."

"Yes, but some things, some things are not meant to change. They are meant to stay eternal … as these wild moors and the rocks beneath our feet are, so should we be." Her hands went to his jaw, clutching it fiercely. Her eyes were intense. "Swear to me we'll always be together, even should death take us. _Swear it!_"

"Nothing shall keep me from you."

"Not even death."

"Not even death, if the devil himself should rise up with all of his minions. I swear it, Christine, not even then."

She swallowed hard and nodded, trying to rid herself of the frightful omen, trying to recapture the spontaneity of the moment and the freedom of their nocturnal outing. She laughed, though it sounded forced. "Where shall we begin?"

"Begin?"

"Our musical debut, of course! London? Italy? Paris? You will write and perform the music and I will sing your masterful compositions to the adoring crowds, who will then throw roses at my feet and award you with standing ovations."

He grinned. "Wherever you wish to go, that is where we will be. The world is our stage."

"Yes, my love," she laughed. "We shall take on the world!"

The faint sound of stringed instruments came to them on the wind and made her eyes widen.

"Listen, Erik ... do you hear? The night air is filled with music. Oh, isn't it beautiful?" she said dreamily. "Our music of the night …"

"The gods are paying you homage for your song."

She giggled. "Not likely. I still have much to learn, as I know you can tell. You're so clever when it comes to arias and operas and compositions and such." She grinned at him. "Maybe _you_ should become my Angel of Music and bless me with your guidance."

He snorted. "I'm hardly an angel, Christine."

"No, but you're _my_ angel …" The sweet melody came louder as the wind shifted. "Oh, where is that music coming from!"

She turned in a circle where she stood, scanning the moors, hoping to locate the source and gasped softly as the outline of The Grange came into view at the foot of the summit. In the darkness, golden light shone from what appeared to be every window of the manor.

"Look, Erik. They must be having a ball." The nugget of an idea made her feel exuberant and playful, her earlier dread all but forgotten as she turned back to her companion. "Do you remember how much fun we had when we were little and spied on the silly children who lived there?" She grabbed his arms. "Let's do so again."

He frowned and shook his head. "I don't want to go down there. We should return to The Heights before Berta finds you missing from your bed."

"Oh, don't be such a stick-in-the-mud." She giggled again at the foolish notion; Erik was anything but straitlaced. "Berta went to visit her sister tonight, did I not tell you? Come. It will be fun. Like when we were children."

His body tensed against hers. "Christine, no …"

"No one will see you. Or me." She pulled away and clasped his large hand between both of her small ones. "I promise. We'll stay in the shadows and watch. Come along, Erik. Please don't say no to me … "

At last he nodded in reluctant consent, and Christine felt as if she must be glowing like one of the stars in the heavens with her small triumph. Even with the face covering he'd created from black silk, Erik remained hidden when strangers were about and spoke to no one outside of The Heights. He rarely left the stables, except to roam the moors, wild and free with her, where they were the only two people in existence. This was their world. And tonight, Christine felt invincible, as if together, they could take on any and all who lived outside their kingdom.

xXx

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**A/N: All credit goes to Charles Hart, Richard Stilgoe and Andrew Lloyd Webber for the lyrics to "Think of Me."  
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	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews! Borrowed a bit from the 2009 WH movie here too (I just love the new version!)... and now …**

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**V**

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They left the horse tied behind. The distance was short and it seemed foolish for them to ride, perhaps even announce their presence by doing so.

Christine hurried down the hill beside Erik as they scrambled over rocks in the moonlit night, the path familiar to them. She felt grateful that time had made her legs long and lean, making it easier to keep up with him since she now ran and leapt like a gazelle to his wildcat. Rarely did she get winded anymore.

They sped across the shallow stream that fronted the estate and climbed the low rock wall like the trespassers they were, stealthily moving around the side of the house, hushing one another and chuckling quietly at their mischief. A white birch grew near the open glass doors of the ballroom, out of the light but close enough to get a good view of the inside and Christine pointed to it in question. Erik hesitated, unsure about such a scheme, but at last nodded in assent. They hastened toward the tall tree, where he bent to lift her onto his shoulder so she could reach the first branch. Once she at last stood upon the thick limb and had a good hold of the limb above, he leapt up, his motions quick and fluid as he effortlessly climbed to join her. The limb above stretched within easy reach, the leafy boughs thicker, offering a better shield to obscure them, and they climbed higher for a better view. They had never dared get so close to the manor before.

She giggled and held to another limb above as he perched beside her on the branch, high off the ground, at least midway to the tall roof. "That must be the Vicomte," she whispered to Erik, pointing out a fashionably dressed young man with golden curls that hung almost to his shoulders. He danced with a well-dressed young lady in brown satin.

"He looks like a dandified fop," Erik dryly observed.

She giggled. "He does, doesn't he? And that woman with him might be the cousin Berta told me about. She came to The Grange last week. My, but she's thin and not very pretty—nothing like the fair de Chagnys. Rather bird-like, don't you think?"

"A fitting companion for the Vicomte's vanity. The strutting peacock and the little brown wren."

She bubbled into laughter again then clapped her hand over her mouth afraid someone standing near the open doors might hear. They pointed out other guests to each other, Erik offering a derisive remark about each that had Christine laughing helplessly with mirth at his wit until Erik covered her mouth with his own hand, pulling her head against his shoulder and chuckling quietly in admonishment for her to be silent. The sudden sound of barking in the distance brought them instant alarm.

"Oh!" Christine gasped as she swung her head around then looked back at him. "The dogs! Someone must have let them out!"

"Quickly, we must go!"

Fear of being caught made her act in haste, and she slid on the smooth bark, losing her balance. "Erik!"

"Christine!" His hand shot out and grabbed her arm as she fell. Desperately he clung to her.

"Erik!" She squealed a little in fright and clamped her other hand to his arm. "_Help me!_"

Erik's own hold was precarious. If he let go of the branch above, he would fall, as would she. Her fingers slid down his arm. "ERIK!" Desperate to return to the branch, she kicked her legs trying to swing herself up to him though it was useless.

"Christine, be still! _Don't move_ …" He grunted, pulling harder and lifting her higher, just as she felt one of her slippers drop to the ground.

The barking grew louder. Guests from inside the ballroom drifted outdoors to the terrace to see. Christine screamed as Erik's loose shirt tore beneath her grasping fingers. Despite his iron hold on her, the weight of her writhing body pulled her downward. Suddenly she fell to the ground and folded as though broken.

"**CHRISTINE!**"

Erik scrambled down to the lowest branch and jumped to the ground, just as the Vicomte made an appearance.

"What in God's name," he shouted, "Victor, what is the meaning of this?"

A pack of guard dogs appeared around the corner of the garden. They ran for Christine who lay motionless on the ground. Erik grabbed a stick and bared his teeth, jumping in front of the beasts that threatened to come near her, striking out at those closest.

"Isn't that Henri's gypsy servant?"

"And that's the Daae girl with him!"

"The violinist's daughter? From The Heights?"

"Get that wild man away from my dogs!"

"_Erik …"_

Two men grabbed Erik before he could run to Christine, who moaned his name.

The dogs were restrained by two more of the Vicomte's men. One cur broke free and raced to Christine, clamping its teeth around her arm, growling and tossing its head as if she were a rag doll. Her piercing scream came terrified and anguished.

"CALL OFF THE DAMN DOGS, VICTOR!" The Vicomte rushed toward her. "**NOW!**"

The man quickly reined in all of his beasts.

"What should we do with _him,_ sir?" one of the men holding Erik asked.

"_Throw him off the grounds! Henri will damn well hear about this."_

Erik watched in horror as the Vicomte picked Christine up from the ground and carried her into the ballroom. Her sleeve was bloodied and torn and she lay unconscious.

"Why do you wear that rag tied 'round your face, gypsy boy?" one of the men sneered.

Erik spit in his eye and struggled hard, breaking free. He escaped their grasping hands and mocking insults … and the beatings of the monster that always had followed when the cloth was pulled away ...

He ran until they lost sight of him, but didn't leave the grounds. Panicked, he moved in the shadows of the bushes, searching through the windows for the room where they'd taken Christine.

**x**

"Erik … Erik … Please … I want Erik …"

Christine writhed on a bed, the faces above her a strange blur. Too bright, the room was too bright.

"Where is he?" she groaned, "Where's Erik …?" She tossed on the pillow, wishing the faces and brightness away. For the first time, praying for the darkness to come and give her comfort.

"Hush, child." An icy hand patted her face and a chilled cloth whisked across her forehead and cheeks. "You've been badly hurt, but we're here to take care of you and bring ye back to health, God willing."

She wished to push the hand with the cloth away, but her arm throbbed with the most horrendous pain … her body felt sore and hot … so hot. Erik … He must come … _where was he …?_

The voices kept speaking but she could make no sense of the words. A strange hum filled her ears. "Erik," she whispered in strong entreaty and then sadly, _"Erik …"_

The hum grew louder as she slipped into nothingness.

**x**

Hours must have elapsed once Erik finally found the right balcony window and ran back to the Summit to collect the horse, which now stood ready for them outside the rock wall. He waited for the infernal gathering to leave her bedside and the guest room. Once they did, he waited several seconds more then smashed his fist through the glass pane, pulling the latch down to unlock it.

Heedless of the blood staining his knuckles, he hurried to where Christine lay, senseless and deathly pale. Her eyes were closed. Her dress had been removed and her shift clung to her damp body, her soft curves beneath the white linen brought into prominence by her sweat-soaked flesh. A strip of material was tied near her shoulder, blood seeping through the cloth. The sheet beneath her was stained with it.

He threw back the comforter at her waist and cradled his hands beneath her slight form. Her eyes cracked open, heavy-lidded. A faint smile tilted her lips, and her voice came out a mere wisp.

"You came …"

"Yes, my Little Angel, I came." He lifted her into his arms, anxiously studying her fever-flushed face. "I wouldn't leave without you."

"Take me home …" she begged him, her eyes falling shut as she drifted away again.

He almost made it to the window before the door swung open.

"_What?_" The Vicomte's irritating high tenor assailed him. "YOU! Put her down this instant!"

Erik whirled around, holding Christine more tightly against him, and glared at the insufferable fop. The wren-like woman in the brown dress stood beside him in the entrance, an older man with a black bag standing behind both the de Chagnys.

"I'm taking her where she belongs," Erik growled. He turned again, toward the balcony.

"If by that you mean The Heights, think man," the Vicomte's annoying voice followed. "She's in need of a physician. We have summoned one here. Her cousin isn't likely to provide her with the care she requires. She fights a high fever … Do you _want_ her to die?"

His last words stopped Erik cold. Curse the fool, the boy was right. Henri was likely off somewhere drinking and whoring, and Berta was only a servant who'd tended minor scrapes and bruises. As far as he knew, she had no knowledge of how to treat a serious wound. Erik had seen the foul cur literally rip into Christine, and his heart again twisted at the painful memory. He had no choice.

"If anything happens to her …" he growled, slowly turning to face the boy. "You will answer to me."

He knew the imprudence of such a threat – he, nothing more than a servant they could order beaten for his insolence and thrown out with a simple command. They had tried once. But he meant every word and stood motionless, staring daggers at the boy until he curtly nodded in acknowledgment and awkwardly looked away.

Erik moved back to the bed and laid Christine on it, gently lowering her head to the pillow. Crouching low, he swept tendrils of damp hair from her face and neck.

"_Erik …?"_ Her thready voice seemed confused, her eyes unfocused.

"It's all right, Christine," he said, taking her hand in his and stroking it with his other one. "You will be well and home soon. I swear it." He gently brushed his fingertips against her temple once more and laid her hand beside her on the coverlet.

At his soothing words, she again grew still and closed her eyes. Erik straightened and glared at the others who'd not moved from the doorway. Nor did he walk past them to exit. Swiftly he retreated to the balcony and slipped out the way he'd come, vanishing into the shadows. With one last, lingering glance at his Angel, he swiftly descended the rope he'd tied there, jumped astride the waiting black stallion, and raced into the night.

xXx


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews! :) I'm really happy to know that you guys are liking this!**

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**VI**

.

Christine rested in a silk-cushioned chair, different from anything The Heights had to offer, and glumly stared out the huge window of the room she'd been given. She looked far past the manicured lawns and perfectly arranged boxwood, toward her beloved, savage moors … and beyond them, through the mist and out of sight stood The Heights.

He had not come.

She had wished it, even dreamt it, at one point so sure he'd held her close in his arms and called her his Little Angel … but a dream was all it had been. He would never leave her at this place, had he actually been there. Nor would he put himself in a position for strangers to see his face, cloth-bound or not.

But she had so hoped he might come.

She sighed and plucked at a soft fold of the day dress Arabella had loaned her, her own dress ruined from her brutal encounter with the beastly hound.

Christine knew very little of Erik's past before he came to The Heights, and what little she did know made her ache for his torment, a life no child should suffer. Papa had never told her any of it, if indeed he himself had known. But in their secret hideaway of rocks, on one of those rare occasions when Erik confided in her, his revelations always brief to the point of curtness, he told her he'd been kept like an animal in a cage and escaped the carnival two nights before Papa spotted him weary and shivering at the side of the road near Liverpool. From that night forward, since he brought him to live at The Heights, he treated Erik as a son, though even then Christine had difficulty thinking of him as her brother. He'd always been a close friend, but he'd become so much more than that. And now her horrible cousin treated him as a slave. Perhaps that's why Erik had not come to see her. Had Henri forbidden it?

Even if he had it wouldn't have made a difference.

Christine blew out a disgruntled breath as she quietly answered her own question. Erik would never have obeyed such an order. He had a streak of wildness that would rather endure a beating than take commands harshly given, the only kind Henri knew how to issue with regard to Erik. No. He had not come to see her only because _he_ did not wish to visit The Grange.

She frowned, trying to decipher the cause. Perhaps he was angry with her for ending up in this palatial home of the people they'd long scorned, since it had been her decision to spy. Or, perhaps he had grown weary of her constant companionship, though his kisses had surely stated otherwise. Her face heated with the coveted memory. Surely, as close as they'd been, as close as _they were_ – he must miss her as much as she missed him! And yet, except for praising her voice when she sang and calling her his Little Angel, he rarely gave her a compliment in all the time she'd known him, a fact that irritated her, especially of late. It puzzled her thoughts and wounded her heart that he'd not attempted to see her, _not once_, to ensure she was recovered. She could very well have died!

The sound of the door opening had her turn, half expectantly, half regretfully. She knew he wouldn't be there but couldn't prevent her heart from hoping.

"Hello, Christine." The Vicomte's cousin, Arabella, approached. "How are you feeling today?"

"Much better." It was a lie. "I would like to go home now."

"Of course you would," the young woman comforted, though she looked at her as if she didn't understand why Christine would wish to return to The Heights. Henri's depraved behavior was obviously no news to those at The Grange. "However, the doctor said that you lost a great deal of blood and it would be wise for you not to overexert yourself. It truly is a miracle that you didn't break a bone from your fall and only endured a bad sprain, though likely you will always bear the scar of that awful hound that bit you. My cousin gave Victor quite the scolding for not keeping a better eye on the gate to ensure it was latched and the dogs were penned. He would have fired him then, but Victor begged for another chance since he has two new mouths to feed—twin boys. Raoul told him one more mistake and he's gone."

Christine grimaced at the news, paying scant attention to Arabella's prattle as she gingerly rubbed her sore arm and glared at her bandaged ankle. She wondered how long it would be until she could again run on the moors with Erik or climb their special rock summit.

"However, that's not why I'm here. I came to tell you that my cousin spoke to your cousin on your behalf and he's given his consent for you to stay with us a few weeks longer."

The news broke Christine from her wishful thinking. A few _weeks_? She had already been here for _seven days!_ Seven days full of nothing but endless emptiness and boredom.

"Oh, but I couldn't! I don't wish to impose. You—you have been so kind already." And she had. Both Arabella and her cousin had been genial hosts in their parents' absence.

"It would be no imposition," the Vicomte said from the doorway, startling Christine. "Forgive the intrusion. I couldn't help but overhear. Are you faring well, Miss Daae?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Raoul, do come and help me convince the dear girl to stay," Arabella urged with a smile. "It would be lovely to have your company, Christine. My cousin is masterful at Whist and charades, when there is an adequate gathering to warrant such amusements, and he can carry a conversation fairly well for a gentleman, but really, he lacks dreadfully in all things musical. And to think, Uncle is considering offering his patronage to the opera house in Paris and one day sending Raoul there in his stead!" She laughed lightly at such a farce.

"Am I to take offense at your remark or consider it a compliment, dear cousin?" His blue eyes sparkled with grudging amusement.

"Do as you wish, Raoul dear. I would so love to have another woman my age for company," Arabella said to Christine, after giving him a slight grin. "I hear you are interested in the dance, and I did learn ballet as a child, so we do have that in common."

She laughed lightly at Christine's clear astonishment. "My mother was a dancer, yes … a simple woman who married a comte. Shocking, isn't it?" Her gray eyes twinkled with mirth. "She had to relinquish her dancing, of course, after they were wed, though she did teach me as a child before she grew ill. My father sent me to a Swiss boarding school after she died, and I was surprised to learn my roommate also took dance instruction and aspired to become a ballerina. Her father was a shipping magnate, not a titled gentleman, so nothing prevented her desire to pursue the dance. Of course, I learned all she was taught. Once my father died the title then went to Raoul's father, but as Raoul continuously reminds me, no titled gentleman would consider a dancer for a wife. So I must put all such notions firmly aside, as Raoul says, since I am the daughter of a comte and must content myself with polite dancing at balls."

"Really, Arabella," he said in appalled amusement.

She gave a little carefree toss of her head. "My father was apparently one of his own breed to consider taking such a lowly wife, though he had no parents still living to deny him his choice. And so, here I am – recently graduated from the ladies' elite academy with years of dance instruction I can never accomplish, a ward of my uncle, and dependant on his generosity until I can land a rich, titled husband."

"Arabella!" Raoul reproved.

Her answering laugh came light. "Well, it's true. Would you prefer me to speak falsely and pretend I seek a pauper?"

"No, indeed. However, the manner in which you speak is rather alarming. What _did_ they teach you at that academy?" he mused.

She batted her lashes and smiled. "Why, how to survive in a gentleman's world, dear cousin. What else?"

"Miss Daae," he turned to Christine. "Do forgive my cousin's dreadful conduct. I assure you, we are not all so bloodthirsty in our endeavors."

Christine didn't think she would ever understand all the intricacies of the gentry but she couldn't help a small smile at their light repartee. "How did you know I was interested in the dance?"

"Your father spoke of it," the Vicomte answered. "When he gave me lessons."

"The poor man," Arabella teasingly surmised. "I do hope your father paid him well for such a supreme sacrifice."

Christine wasn't certain she liked the idea of the de Chagny cousins discussing her life behind her back. Yet she supposed, in a sense, she had done something similar, and felt a little guilty for it now that she'd met them. These people were kind and gracious to receive her into their home, when she and Erik had been nothing but trespassers on their property.

"I should like to know." Christine nervously smoothed her skirt. "Has anyone been here, from The Heights? To inquire after me?"

"As a matter of fact …"

Christine's heart picked up pace at the Vicomte's slow words.

"Your housekeeper came by on the third day of your stay. Berta, I believe her name was?"

"Yes, Berta. She was my nursemaid when I was little." She cleared her throat trying to sound unconcerned and briefly glanced down at her hands folded in her lap. "Did anyone else come to see me?"

The two exchanged a look, but it was so fleeting, she couldn't be sure what it meant, if it meant anything at all.

"Not that I'm aware," the Vicomte said. "Were you expecting someone?"

Christine barely curbed a sigh of disappointment. "No, I suppose not. He wouldn't come, not here …" Her quiet words trailed off, as distant as her gaze toward the moors. After a moment, she looked at her host, at last remembering her manners.

"Thank you, Vicomte, Lady Arabella, for your kindness in opening your home to me."

He smiled. "Please, call me Raoul. And may I call you Christine? I feel as if I know you, having seen you at church throughout the past years."

Christine nodded uncertainly, having seen him, as well. Both she and Erik, in those first years when Papa had been alive, had whispered to one another from the back pew, poking fun at the Vicomte where he sat like a little golden angel in his front family pew. Afterward, the minister or the sexton, Joseph, who also lived and worked at the Heights gave Christine and Erik a scolding, calling them wild and heathen, sometimes followed by punishment for the sins of which they declared them guilty – a punishment which she and Erik usually managed to escape, running to the moors and their hideaway, where no one else ever visited.

After Papa died and Erik was made into a servant, he refused to attend church, much to Henri's indifference and Berta's horror, and Christine missed his presence there. At first, she tried to be a dutiful daughter and listen to what the crusty old minister said. Mostly it had been about hell and brimstone and how they were all destined to burn in everlasting fire. How different and hopeful Papa's words with regard to sacred matters had been! Afterward she would tell Erik what she heard, and he would make wry and witty retorts about the minister, the sexton, and others in the congregation that would break her from her bleak mood into gales of laughter. Months after Erik's change in their household status, she also stopped attending the long, dry services and remained with Erik, enjoying his company much more than the critical minister or the dour sexton's.

Christine came back to the present with a little jolt, noticing the cousins' inquisitive looks toward her. If Erik was determined to remain absent, she wouldn't let his cruel distance make her confinement at The Grange even more difficult to bear than it already was.

With a polite smile, she kindly accepted Arabella's offer to join them for tea.

xXx

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**A/N: "Arabella" is my answer to Isabella for this PotO version - but don't look for matches in WH storyline with her character or with Raoul's (aka- Edgar) either. I'm doing my own thing with this ... 'nuff said. :)**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: I appreciate the reviews! Sorry this took so long to get up. But anyway, you guys know me and know I will keep writing and posting as I can, as long as there is continued interest. That said, here's the next installment of this story. :)**

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**VII**

**.  
**

Christine stayed five weeks at The Grange and came back to The Heights different than on the night she left it.

Upon exiting the de Chagny carriage, she was shocked to see her welcoming committee: Henri stood there, neat and sober, next to a pale, thin woman he introduced as his wife. _His_ _wife!_ What shocked Christine more than the news that he'd married a stranger in the weeks that she'd been absent were the two swift thoughts such news generated – what would this mean to the household? And what kind of woman would bond herself _to_ _him_?

Uncertain how to receive the poor, foolish creature, she smiled warily at the newcomer, Elizabeth, briefly allowing her to take her hands in greeting. She gave a distant smile to Joseph and the other servants and ran to give Berta a kiss on the cheek, evading her hug upon seeing the dirt covering her apron.

"Oh, just look at you, Miss!" Berta lifted Christine's arms to the sides, much as she did when she was a girl, her words full of admiration as she stared at the pale yellow silk dress Arabella had a seamstress make for her with its matching hat. Inside her trunk were two dresses of similar quality and variation of color and one gorgeous evening gown of emerald velvet and black lace. "You have grown into a fine lady. Your Papa would be proud."

Christine beamed at her praise, her heart racing, her eyes scanning the grounds. "Where is he, Berta? Where's Erik?"

Berta's expression clouded. "I'm not sure, Miss. He's not had an easy time of it since ye left."

Her words brought a pang of distress to Christine's heart. "He's not here then?" At Berta's quick shake of her head and telling glance toward Henri, who was entering the house with Elizabeth, Christine frowned. "I must find him."

"Miss Christine, will you not be wantin' your tea?"

"Later, Berta. Thank you. I must speak with Erik first."

Eagerly she hurried to the stables but found the door barred, the interior curiously empty. In a burst of revelation she knew where he would be.

Heedless of the gathering storm clouds, Christine left the courtyard for the moors, her hand held firmly to the crown of her new hat. She moved as fast as she was able to their favorite spot high atop the hill of standing rocks, needing to climb or step up many of them to get there, thankful her ankle had healed well enough to do so though it still felt too weak to run. She was careful not to soil her dress, though it was impossible for it to escape all grime, and she vigorously brushed at her skirt when she noticed any spotting it.

She saw him at once. With his back to her, he stood tall and impressive between two columns of stones and stared into the distance. Her heart quickened at the long coveted sight of him.

Due to the manner in which she was gasping for breath by the time she reached the summit, she knew he had to have heard her approach, even without his acute hearing. But he made no move toward her showing that he had. For that reason alone she held back from hurling herself into his arms and hugging him close in her delight to see him again. She hoped he wasn't in one of his foul tempers.

She cleared her throat and stepped forward, forcing a cheerful tone. "Erik! There you are. I had hoped you might be at The Heights to welcome me home."

"I was not aware that you would return today."

His beautiful fluid voice, after not having heard it for so long, sent a shiver along her spine, though she thought his tone and explanation odd. Had not all of the household and small staff been there to greet her?

"Well, I did," she said needlessly. "And here I am!"

She was so eager to see him and for him to notice the change in her, she reached up to press her hand to his shoulder. He jerked from her touch as though he didn't want it. Drawing her brows together, she frowned, hurt by his behavior.

"Will you not at least pay me the courtesy of looking at me when we speak?" She had not intended her voice to sound so brittle, but after weeks of wishing to see him and days of dreaming how wondrous their reunion would be, his moodiness was making her angry.

He turned then, very slowly. She saw the bruise on his cheek beneath the cloth tied around his head and gasped, instantly lifting her fingers toward it, but he flinched away before she could make contact and she dropped her arm limply to her side. A detached look filled his eyes as they coldly roamed from her pert hat and upswept curls to the silk gown and matching slippers peeking beneath.

"Forgive me, mistress, I meant no disrespect." His sardonic tone reeked of it.

_Mistress_?

Angry tears filled her eyes. "Why are you speaking to me like this? To ME? Why are you being so distant and grim? I've been gone for weeks –"

"No one held you prisoner there, except your own desires."

"Wh-what?" she blinked in disbelief. "Erik, I was badly hurt! The doctor said I needed rest and should not be moved."

"_Five weeks_, Christine?"

"They were kind to me." She lifted her chin. "And a lot more agreeable than the present company, I must say!"

"Oh, yes. I'm sure _the Vicomte_ was most charming." His scathing words flowed dark and erroneously sweet.

"As a matter of fact, he was. He told me I looked enchanting in this dress! He offered me compliments as if they were sweetmeats – daily and in great number."

His eyes widened as if in revelation, his little smile one of surprised disdain. "I see! Then it is _flattery_ you desire to keep you here? How remiss of me not to feed your conceit like the pompous ass who lives at The Grange."

She gasped. "That was cold and cruel! Why are you being so horrid? What have I done to deserve your contempt? Do you now hate me?"

"Hate you?" He scoffed out a laugh. "I don't even _**know**_ you." His eyes sparked with an intensity that made her heart pound. "Look at you! Where is the spirited girl in the plain gray dress who snubbed her nose at the upper classes?" He glared with scorn at her silk finery and scowled in disgust. "You look like one of _them_ now. The _de Chagnys_."

"And what if I do? Just because they have money doesn't make them empty-headed and coldhearted as we thought."

"Is that what you truly wish, Christine?" His voice grew soft but no less dangerous. "To _become_ one of them?" He took a step toward her. "To indulge in a life of luxury while your spirit withers among the milksops with whom you bear nothing in common?"

"At least I'll not starve!"

"No, there's no danger of that. But what of _your soul_, Christine?"

She winced at the memory of her words to him over a month ago, winced also at how accurate his words were.

"What would you have me do?" she cried angrily. "Is it so wrong to enjoy being pampered when I've missed it so much, ever since Papa died? YOU certainly never tell me what you think of me, of what I am to you. You are so quick to throw my words back in my face, but have you any to offer in reply?" Her accusation flew from her mouth, and too late to snatch it back, she pursued, taking a step toward him. "I had hoped you might speak before this; now I insist on knowing – _precisely what am I to you, Erik_?"

"_What can you __**ever**__ be to me?"_ He gritted out the words quietly between clenched teeth, grabbing her arms above the elbows and stepping forward, giving her a little shake to make her understand. "Angels are not meant to consort with demons …"

"Oooooo! _THAT again?_" She pressed her hands against his chest, trying to push him away, but he held her too tightly. "Do you know what I think is at the heart of your denial? I think you use your face as an excuse. The chief obstacle that holds you back is your wretched _PRIDE!_"

"PRIDE?" He laughed sarcastically and glared. "With a face like this, I haven't _a shred_ of pride to claim!"

"No, indeed – YOU ARE _FULL_ OF IT!"

He growled low, shaking her again. "_WHAT IS IT YOU WANT FROM ME?_"

"THE TRUTH, DAMN YOU! FOR ONCE, TELL ME HOW YOU REALLY FEEL!"

The echoes of her answering shout resounded in the sudden lethal silence. His eyes blazed a dangerous, feral gold as something seemed to snap, making her catch a quick, anxious breath, and she knew she'd pushed him too far.

"Erik …" she whispered nervously.

"_The_ _truth is what you want?"_his voice lowered to a fierce snarl as he pushed his face close to hers, "_then__** by God you shall have it! **__You are a vexing, vain, and stubborn female …_" – at this, she glared, trying to break free again, but he held fast – "… _with a spirit I don't wish to see broken, a talent that surpasses mere mortals, and a beauty that drives me to madness!__** I**__** BURN FOR YOU**__, __**CHRISTINE, AND THAT – **_**THAT**_** IS THE WHOLE DAMNABLE TRUTH!**__"_

Stunned, she had no time to think as he grabbed fistfuls of her hair, knocking her hat to the ground, and crushed his mouth to hers.

All the fight in her melted away as desire, hot and stark and heavy, swept through her in flaming torrents. She grabbed handfuls of his loose shirtfront, her tongue and lips as eager to meld with his. She wanted to cry with relief. This – THIS was what she had been aching for during the long, bland, empty weeks of teas and cards and charades.

He kissed her breathless, moving her back until her shoulders hit a stone column, and trapped her with his strong body. His hands swept through her carefully coiffed hair, impatiently ridding it of the confining pins, until it fell in a tangled mass to her shoulders and down her back. His long fingers pressed against the globe of her breast, his heated touch a brand upon her skin. And she _was _his, had always been his … always would be his …

No demon or angel or mortal existing could separate them, she was sure of it.

Their breaths ragged, she groaned in need as his mouth scattered fire along her throat, to her collarbone and down the middle of her breasts that threatened to burst from the delicate, lacy edging of her bodice. Their awkward explorations of more than a month ago seemed a sweetly burning flame to the violent wildfire that now consumed them. Faint with the desire coursing through her blood and the need to be closer still, she grabbed his head and held him desperately to her. Her fingers threaded through his thick hair as he kissed his way down to her stomach, his hands spanning her waist while insistently pulling her to him and, trembling, she went willingly with him to the ground.

He moved over her, covering her with his long, hard body. Holding her wrists pinned up beside her as he had in the hayloft, he kissed her with wild abandon. His warm lips moved over her face and down the side of her neck then over the swells of her breast, making her gasp with hungry pleasure to feel his moist touch there. He reclaimed her mouth and their tongues tangled in need as she squirmed beneath him, both of them caught up in a whirlwind of raw passion, the hardness that made him different from her, made him physically a man, felt through her skirts. A thread of uncertain shyness made her grow still though she didn't pull away, didn't even wish to, and soon the heat of his mouth burning against her throat made her again forget everything but his damp caresses on her skin. His searching hands upon her body. Reckless. Urgent. Inexperienced as she while matching the desperation she felt to know more ...

His hands left her wrists and she felt her skirts lifted, his fingers bold, determined, running along one calf and up the length of her drawers while drawing heat along the inside of her thigh through the thin material. To her shock, his hand ended its exploratory path by cupping her most intimate place, the cloth wet from his passionate caresses. He groaned low and she opened her eyes wide at his forthright touch. Her head reeling with the ache and the pleasure, she inhaled a sharp gasp that turned into a shuddering moan as his fingers slowly began to rub against her. Again he impatiently reclaimed her mouth. Closing her eyes with the strangeness and the bliss of his discoveries, she wrapped one leg around his, moving her arms around his shoulders, her fingers frantically pulling up his shirt and digging into the heated skin of his back.

He pulled away from her mouth, sucking in a sharp hiss, not of pleasure but of pain, and she froze in shock, not only from his unexpected reaction – but from the horror of what her hungry touch had revealed. Gently, and oh so carefully, she ran her fingertip along a fresh welt on his back, leading to another, and another …

"Erik?" she rasped in anguish, watching his eyes squeeze shut. "Wh-what happened?" Tears filled her eyes when she felt warm drops of wetness on her fingertips and knew it was blood. "Henri did this to you?" she whispered between clenched teeth.

He moved away from her, leaving her body suddenly cold and forlorn. She also sat up. Her hands went to his shirt, but he blocked them, firmly grabbing her wrists. He would not look at her.

"Let me see," she insisted in a tender whisper. "Please …"

At first she thought he might refuse, but at last he turned his back to her, grabbed the shirttail she had loosened and awkwardly pulled the baggy material over his head. The naked sight of his defined muscles and strong back, her first time to see him thus unclothed made her a little breathless. But it was the horrific sight of multiple lacerations from a whip, barely healed over, several reopened and oozing drops of blood, that made her clap a hand to her mouth and her other hand over that one, to silence the cries of anguish that tore through her chest.

If only she had come home when she should have! If she had not stayed at The Grange, this never would have happened! She _never_ would have let it happen, if she had to wrest the whip from Henri's fist or cover Erik with her own body to prevent it!

"Do not cry on my account," he said after a moment, sensing her response. "This is not the first time I've endured a flogging. At the carnival, they beat me with regularity."

His lifeless words with their bitterly wry twist did the opposite of reassuring her. They added to her misery as if her back were the one covered in fresh weals and she noted the old scars too. She wished to press her lips gently to each split of his skin, but knew in his present mood he would regard her action as nothing more than pity and wouldn't welcome her affection. She worked to compose herself and brushed the tears from her cheeks lest he should turn and see her despair.

"Henri will get his just reward and I will soon have my revenge." He tightened his hold around his shirt, looping it over his hands and wringing the material now spotted with red. "As I will one day have revenge on all who oppose me .…"

"Wh-what do you mean?" she moved to his side to look into his eyes.

He sneered, "He has seen my face! Oh, he's tried before but I was always a step ahead of him, always able to prevent it. But now he _has_ seen. The gypsies who caged me said my face is cursed, that I have the evil eye. And now I have put my curse on him!"

She winced, wishing he would not speak of revenge and casting curses as he so often did. "_I_ have seen your face. _I'm_ not cursed."

He looked away without responding.

The white flash of lightning lit up the rocks, and he clenched his teeth. "You need to return to The Heights."

She ignored him. "You said you had no knowledge that I was coming home today. How did you –"

"After Henri whipped me last night, once Joseph and his men caught me, he locked me in the stables. I escaped out the loft window and came here."

Thinking how high the confined opening stood from the ground and how difficult it must have been for Erik to climb down through after having been beaten, she winced.

"But why? Why did Henri do this to you?"

He looked at her then, his eyes steady. "He learned I had been to The Grange after he ordered me not to go."

She blinked. "Y-you were there? I never knew."

"I looked in through the parlor window. I saw you. More than once."

His emotionless words chilled her. Had he seen her with Raoul and Arabella, laughing and conversing? Singing for them after supper? Sharing in all the odd little diversions in which the nobility found amusement?

"Why did you not come to the door and ask for me?" she inquired hoarsely.

His smile was bitter. "Christine, think. A gypsy slave welcomed as a guest? And a heathen gypsy slave at that? They would sooner let the stable animals run amok in the ballroom." His eyes lost some of their angry sparkle, looking almost sad. "I am pleased that your voice did not suffer from your fall. I am sorry I could not prevent it."

Her heart twisted, understanding what he withheld. His anger and hurt, his guilt and pain …

"Erik …"

He swiftly rose to his feet and pulled his shirt over his head. "You must return before the storm hits. It would not do for you to be exposed after the recent fever you suffered."

"I will not return without you." Seeing his scowl, she insisted, "Berta should treat your wounds so they don't fester. You cannot stay here overnight and in such foul weather!"

He curtly nodded and she felt gratified that at least he agreed.

They left their hideaway in silence. Erik offered his help, lifting her down off the more precarious rocks as they descended the summit of the hill, but otherwise he remained distant. The storm, however, did not, and by the time they reached The Heights, both of them were drenched to the skin.

**xXx**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews - please keep them coming! To know you guys are liking this bizarre creation of mine makes my day. (I can say "bizarre" because I have the entire story outlined and know what will happen right down to the finish - muahaha - barring the usual adds and twists I suddenly find myself writing...) ;-) … This chapter has a strong resemblance to WH - but don't ever look for exact duplicates to either classic - I'm doing my own thing, too.  
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**VIII**

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Berta regarded the pair of them with an expression of profound horror, Christine, especially, as she took in her wild, loose hair, now dripping to her waist, and the poor condition of the ruined silk gown that clung to her shivering form. Even the rain had not been enough to wash away the soil from where she'd lain on the earth beneath Erik. At the time, she had forgotten all about the dress.

She darted a glance to where he stood beside her. A look she couldn't read sobered his countenance, before Berta snapped out of her shock.

"Lord in heaven, child!" Berta rushed to Christine, throwing a shawl around her and drawing her near the kitchen fire to sit in a chair before it. "What have you done to put yourself in such a state? Sit. Sit. I will pour you some tea."

Berta's words brought back the memory of what she'd done. The reason for her condition brought heat not caused by the fire into Christine's cheeks and forehead. "Never mind, Berta. You must help Erik. That wretched cousin of mine whipped him then locked him in the stables. No doubt if he doesn't find him there come morning, his fate will be ten times worse!"

Berta's eyes grew wide and she looked toward the kitchen door as if afraid the master of the house might make an appearance and whip her too. She needn't have worried. There was as much chance of Henri lowering himself to visit the kitchens as there was of his new wife becoming the scullery maid!

"Berta!" Christine urged, ready to treat Erik's wounds herself, though her maid surely would have argued that it would be improper … but not as improper as rolling around on the moors with him in heated passion, ready to surrender her virtue by letting him, no, _begging him_ in a fevered haze of silence to touch her so intimately … The memory brought a hot rush of that same desire mixed with a sobering amount of shame – had her Papa known what a wicked young girl she'd become, he never would have promised to send her any angel, though she had long stopped believing in the fabled Angel of Music.

"Miss Christine, you're sitting too close to the fire. Come away a bit. Your face is bright red." Berta regarded Erik, who still hesitated in the entrance. She retrieved a washbasin and cloth. "Alright then. Let's see what he's done to you this time."

_This time?_ Christine's heart seemed to catch in her throat. Meaning there were other atrocities Henri had inflicted on Erik in the month and week she'd been absent?

Before she could ask, Erik moved forward and removed his shirt, throwing it down to the stones. Christine drew in a slow, shaky breath at the sight of him. She knew it wasn't polite to stare, that she should avert her gaze … but felt helpless to look away.

His chest was as magnificent and solid as his back, chiseled and lean, and she felt a second infusion of warmth that was also no cause of the fire. Fine tufts of dark hair sparsely covered his faintly browned skin, as if he'd worked without his shirt a number of days, his arms and shoulders as muscular as the rest of his form. Neither Berta nor Erik noticed how she stared, or how she tried not to, becoming more flustered with each passing minute that she could not avert her gaze from him.

Berta drew in a hiss through her teeth at the sight of Erik's back and set to work quickly, tsking sounds of grim disapproval. She applied a paste and bound him with strips of cloth. Erik didn't look Christine's way, not once. At first this relieved her, for she didn't want him to catch her gawking at his half naked body, but soon his avoidance became an irritation since he seemed determined to pretend she wasn't there.

"I'll try to save your dress, Miss, but I'm not sure it's possible, the cloth is so fine," Berta said, tying a last strip of cloth around Erik's torso.

"We had no expectation of being caught in the downpour, no warning whatsoever." Christine's eyes never left Erik's lowered ones. "It happened so suddenly and took both of us … quite unaware." She willed him to look her way at her deliberate words and felt some satisfaction at the dull flush of color in his face and his knowledge that he knew she referred to much more than the storm.

"Tsk. Tsk. Erik, it would be best for you to return to the stables now before the master knows you're here. Mind that ye try not to set him off to punish you again."

"The very act of my breathing sets Henri off." His voice, fluid and rich, startled Christine when he had so long been silent. He rose from the chair, thanked Berta and gave Christine's corner of the room a bare nod before leaving the kitchen and heading outdoors.

Christine blinked, her mouth parting in resentful surprise. Those same distant golden eyes of his had certainly taken in their fill of her a scant hour before! As had his mouth and his hands … and now he gave her about as much notice as _a barn cat?_

She seethed with anger, feeling spurned. Once Berta undid the tiny buttons along her back, Christine practically ripped the gown from her body to give to the servant, who draped a blanket around her shoulders. Christine threw herself back down into the chair.

"Dry your hair with this." Berta gave her a length of toweling then examined the gown more closely. "Whatever were ye doin' out there, child? The soil is ground in badly and covers the whole backside of the dress … did ye take a tumble?"

The fire of anger and embarrassment set her cheeks aflame again. "Yes, I took a tumble."

Fast and hard for a rake, an unfeeling cad who was more often than not as sociable as a mummy in a tomb!

Berta sighed at her clipped words as if she didn't believe them. "Tell me about your time at The Grange. I hope ye bided there well and passed your birthday with gladness?"

Christine managed a smile. "They were kind and hospitable." She launched into a brief recounting of her stay at the de Chagny residence. "Raoul - that is what he has asked me to call him - is quite pleasant. He insinuated that he wishes to further our acquaintance."

"Oh?" Berta's eyes regarded her sharply.

"Yes, he is all that a gentleman should be. Considerate and agreeable and polite."

"You sound quite taken with the Vicomte."

"_Taken_ with him?" she snorted. "Don't be absurd, Berta."

"And why should ye not be taken, Miss? He is handsome, wealthy and titled. You are sixteen now, of an age to consider a husband. Henri would be pleased by such a match. You sound as if ye would be content with living there. I cannot see the hindrance."

"Then you are blind." Christine frowned, staring into the flames. "The greatest hindrance lies _here!_" She pounded her fist over her heart. "Or perhaps, _here!_" She slapped the flat of her palm against her forehead.

"And would Erik be the cause of this hindrance?" Berta asked in a knowing way.

Christine chose not to answer.

"Perhaps, then, your heart is already taken." Berta took a damp brush to the gown she'd spread out over the table.

"I don't know what you mean." The belying burn on Christine's face once again betrayed her feelings. Why must she have such pale skin that flushed so readily?

"Erik, Miss. Perhaps it is him that you love."

The damning words, so casually aired, gave her no little distress.

"_Love __**Erik?**_" she gave a scoffing little laugh, her earlier annoyance with him fueling words that were no part of her. **"**_**How can any woman in her right mind love someone like him?**_**"**

"Miss Christine!" Berta breathed in shock at her fierce denial.

"It's true, Berta. He's cruel and insensitive and cold! He's brooding and dark and at times he frightens me. He always speaks of curses and other devilish talk. A woman would have to be _**mad**_ to entrust her heart to Erik or consider him for a husband! He's such an insufferable boor! Sometimes I wish he'd never come to The Heights, that he'd just go away and leave me in peace!"

Her heart called her a wicked liar and she wondered where such false, hateful words had sprung from, a sickening geyser that burst from the depths of her misery. The words left a sour taste in her mouth and she wiped it with the back of her hand and dashed the tears from her eyes. She had been so happy when she arrived to The Heights such a short hour ago, so eager to see Erik and be with him.

Oh, what had gone so wrong?

Berta cleared her throat awkwardly. "Well, at least that would satisfy the master, since he's forbidden you to have much of anything to do with Erik."

_**"To hell with my cousin, too. I care not one whit what Henri thinks and will do as I bloody well please!**"_

Berta stopped whisking the brush over the gown and stared at her in horror, clearly at a loss. "But … I thought …"

Christine managed a slow intake of breath then gave her old nursemaid a weary, sad smile, now penitent for her sharp outburst. "Which is far more than I've been doing, Berta. I could no more separate myself from Erik than I could cut out my tongue and never sing again."

Berta shook her head. "But surely you were right to say you could never marry him. The master has brought Erik down so low from what your good Papa planned for the lad. What future could there be for the two of you, Miss? You would both be paupers."

Christine rubbed her arms, not wanting to hear such talk, feeling cold and wishing for his arms to warm her again, wishing he could love her profoundly, unceasingly, without measure. Not as a friend, but as … a wife. She could withstand anything then, even poverty. Yet he'd never spoken one word to her of that kind of love. Burning for someone was not love. Could that be the source of these strange, exciting, disturbing emotions she felt for him? Mere lust?

No, she did not even need to consider such an idea, not for a moment. What she felt for Erik was much more intricate and demanding than simple lust. It involved much more than the physical.

Calmed by that knowledge, all of what Christine felt in her heart forced its way through her tight throat. The need to speak the truth, at last, was more powerful than the urge to express the vile lies she earlier spouted.

"Strange as it may seem, I cannot consider giving myself to any other man," she whispered, almost to herself, and gave a humorless laugh. "I suppose, then, that makes me mad."

Berta looked at her sympathetically.

Christine sighed and sat back in the chair, holding the blanket more tightly around her. "For each of his faults, he has ten worthy qualities. Every misfortune Erik has suffered, I have felt as if it were my own and more deeply than my own pain, for he is always there to lessen my sorrows and help me forget … Yes, he is often moody and silent, and no one will ever understand all of his mystery. But I accept that, because it's a part of who he is. If anyone knows him as well as can be done, it is I; and I alone will ever understand him." She gave a helpless little self-deprecating laugh. "He's like the very air I breathe – necessary and invigorating to my flesh. And he's like the ground beneath my feet – solid and true. And he's like the moors – wild and passionate and full of beauty and life and music …" Tears filled her eyes, rolling down her cheeks as she looked up. "Without him, there would be no substance to my world. All would cease to exist and become void. My God, Berta, _Erik IS my soul. We need no vows to join us__** –**_ _**we are already one!**_"

Berta looked at her with astonished horror, as if she'd spoken sacrilege. She glanced toward the kitchen entrance in alarm, then back to Christine.

"What?" Christine sat forward. "Why do you look so queer?"

"I think he came back, Miss."

"Came _back_?" She struggled to understand then noticed his forgotten shirt lying on the kitchen flagstones. A feeling of dread rose, so strong, it suffocated her heart and she could barely form her question. "What did he hear?" she asked very quietly.

"I ..." Berta looked uneasy. "It was when you were yelling how you wish he would go away ... I heard the door softly close. And Joseph wouldn't come and go without stating his business here –"

"_**My God**__ – why did you just stand there? Why didn't you tell me?_"

Christine leapt to her feet and ran for the entrance.

"Miss, ye cannot go out there like that! You'll catch your death for sure!"

Christine wrenched open the door and ran into the rain.

"_Erik! ERIK – WHERE ARE YOU?_" She raced to the stables. "_ERIK – I'M SORRY – I DIDN'T MEAN A WORD OF IT – I SWEAR I DIDN'T!_" She threw open the door, but he wasn't inside. However Cesar, one of Henri's thoroughbreds, was missing from his stall.

_No_ … _Oh, God, no … no ... no!_

Horror made Christine back away and whirl from the stable. Sanity fled as she raced out of the courtyard and the gate, ignoring Berta who stood at the door, begging her to come back inside. All that mattered was finding Erik and bringing him home. The mire of the road sucked at her flimsy slippers. She pulled them off and left them behind, soon discarding the cumbersome blanket as well.

"**ERIK!**_**"**_

Her hot tears fell in abundance, mixing with the cold rain. How could she have been so hard and foolish and cruel to speak such hateful words foreign to her heart, words she didn't mean? Could _never_ mean? Words he had heard …

_Dear God!_

Her chemise stuck to her skin as she continued down the road, stumbling and sliding in the mud. In the distance, she could see the faint outline of a solitary horse and rider. She tried to run faster but the rain and deep mire acted as her adversaries.

"**ERIK – COME BACK! … I DIDN'T MEAN IT … I LOVE YOU – ONLY YOU! … **_**YOU HAVE MY SOUL**_** … **_**ALL OF MY HEART … YOU ALWAYS HAVE … ONLY YOU … EVER WILL … PLEASE … PLEASE … GOD, PLEASE … DON'T LEAVE ME!**_**"**

The wind snatched her words away. Robbed of breath, she fell to her knees in the mud.

"_Please don't go,_" she rasped through a burning throat, knowing it was too late, knowing he could not have heard her … knowing she might never see him again.

And in that empty, black moment, she wished only to die.

**xXx**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews! Please as you read this- remember everything I said in the preface of this story, which is far from being over …**

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**IX**

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Christine almost received her wish to die.

Despite the bleak darkness and bitter cold, she stayed outdoors in the rain until her body went numb, while hoping and praying he would turn around and come back – by God, if only to confront her and yell at her for all the horrible things she'd said, to shake her senseless and call her any name he wished, if only to give her the chance _to explain_ – but he never did. He once told her that she was the sole reason he remained at The Heights. And now … now she had sent him away because of her hurt pride and with careless, empty words of spite that belonged to the cold heart of a stranger.

She staggered back to the manor and into kitchen.

Berta let out a cry, rushing to her side.

"Joseph," Christine grated through a hoarse, gravelly throat and chattering teeth, "Send Joseph to Gimmerton to find him … he must have gone there. Bring him home, Berta."

"Yes, yes, of course child. First we must get you out of those wet things -"

"Promise me, Berta!" Christine coughed harshly. "Do it. Do it now …" With no strength left in her bones and little spirit to care, she collapsed to the floor.

x

Over the next week, Christine battled for each troubled breath, her lengthy exposure to the rain so soon after her harrowing plight at The Grange bringing with it a dangerously high fever and congestion in her chest. Throughout that dark time she woke for brief periods and in scant flashes of recognition, pleaded to see Erik, demanding the servants bring him to her, cursing them when they wouldn't, refusing to take any of the broth Berta tried to feed her. Her dreams were frightening, surreal, always containing Erik far in the distance. But she was never able to reach him. More than once she awoke screaming for him and Berta hurried to tend her.

Her condition worsened and they brought in the minister to deliver last rites. Berta cried at her bedside. Through the thick haze in her ears, Christine heard the dour minister asking God for pity upon her wretched soul - then again she slipped into deep oblivion.

She awoke late in the night to see in the glow of the burning candle that Erik approached her bed. He stopped close by her side but only looked at her, his expression grave. Overjoyed to see him, eager to embrace him, she tried to move but discovered she could not. Her body felt like dead weight, as if invisible ties bound her to the mattress.

"Erik …?" she whispered fearfully.

He did not touch her, but his beautiful golden eyes seared into hers, his words fierce – _"Do not let death separate us -_ _fight, Christine! Fight, as you have never fought before!" _

She opened her eyes suddenly to find the room still and dimly lit, with Berta dozing in a chair beside her, and realized with a pang of dismay that it had all been a dream. No matter how real it had felt, Erik wasn't there. But his quiet demand lingered in her mind, and the vow they had made to one another on The Summit strengthened her resolve.

Slowly, she did fight to regain her health, no longer refusing any of the broths or tonics but taking whatever Berta gave her like a docile child. At the physician's next visit, he expressed wonder at her improvement, clearly astonished to see she yet lived, but warned her that she should remain quiet and stay in bed.

Feeling aware once more, after spending days with her mind trapped in a feverish delirium, Christine addressed her faithful old nursemaid with the subject closest to her heart. "Tell me, please, Berta. Did Joseph find him? Is he here? I want to speak with Erik. I can no longer wait. I _must_ speak with him."

Berta sniffled into her hand, and Christine saw how red-rimmed her eyes were. She had thought her tears for her, but why should she still cry since the doctor had said she was recovering?

"Berta, something is wrong. Tell me."

The servant briskly shook her head and hurried to the door.

"Berta!" Though weak, Christine managed to sit up, putting her weight on her arm. "What has happened?"

"I cannot say, Miss. I – I will fetch the master."

"But I don't want Henri, I want –" Christine weakly fell back against the pillows in frustration. The last person she wanted to see was her snide cousin. The recollection of the awful stripes across Erik's back had made her physically ill and horribly ache, as if she bore his wounds, and she doubted she would be able to speak to Henri with an ounce of civility.

She had begun to think Berta forgot to convey a message by the time her door finally opened. Henri strode inside, his manner arrogant.

"Christine, dear cousin. I see that you have managed to escape a dire fate. I _am_ pleased to see that you have recovered, but really, my dear, such childish behavior cannot be tolerated. All of this over that worthless gypsy servant? Tsk, tsk."

She compressed her lips in a tight line at his condescension, looking away from his pitiless eyes. She never did understand why Henri hated Erik so much.

"Well, no matter. I daresay the beast is now burning for his multitude of sins. You need not concern yourself with him any longer."

The offhand manner in which he delivered his quiet statement brought goose bumps scattering over her flesh. She glared at him in dread. "What atrocity have you committed against him this time?"

"I, dear girl? No, unfortunately I wasn't given the privilege, though I would gladly shake the hand of the man who ended the wretch's life – perhaps cross his palm with gold for a well-deserved reward."

She stared. "Y-you lie. Erik's not … he's not …" She couldn't bring herself to say the word.

"Not experiencing eternal damnation and burning in the fires of hell? Now …" He pulled something from his pocket and flung it in her lap. "I wouldn't go as far as to say that."

Christine looked down in horror at the black scrap of silk. Gingerly, she fingered the eye hole. Thick spatters of brown covered the material … like … dried …

Blood.

"A man near Gimmerton recognized Cesar and knew your worthless gypsy friend stole my horse. Shot the thief in the back days ago. I thought you might like a souvenir, all that's left of him now."

"_Shot him …?_" she whispered hoarsely.

"Yes, my dear. Stone dead."

His words became lost in the fierce gust of wind rushing through her ears.

"Henri," Elizabeth said from the doorway, hurrying to Christine's side and pulling her head close, smoothing her hair in a vain attempt at comfort. "You mustn't vex the poor girl so! She's been through such a frightful ordeal as it is."

"Merely trying to get her to see reason, my dear. She always has been obstinate when it comes to the matter of that filthy gypsy."

"I should think there would have been a better way to go about expressing such news. It is quite obviously upsetting to her. Why, her poor little face has gone positively white!"

"_Please go._" Christine's lips barely moved as she spoke in a quiet whisper.

Elizabeth regarded her in uncertainty. "I don't wish to leave you like this …"

Christine's eyes fell closed, shutting the woman out. She sat unmoving and barely heard when they finally left and her door closed, leaving her alone in her torment.

"You swore you would never let death separate us," she whispered.

She dropped her dull gaze to his cloth mask, slowly curling it in her hand.

"You _swore_ _it …_"

All their shared dreams … all of her hopes … gone in the vile breath it took to utter the dreadful words.

Erik …

never to return …

_dead._

She tightened her fist around the silk as shock gave way to grief, so deep, she felt as if her heart had shattered and was being extracted from her body, piece by piece.

He'd already taken every part of her soul with him the night he left.

_Days ago ..._

She struggled to breathe -_ he had never been given the chance to return!_

Hot tears rolled down her face as she slowly tilted it back. The rising tide of anguish relentlessly tore apart what was left of her being in a scream of rage and pain and hatred that ripped from her tight throat and grew in trembling crescendo.

"Nooooooo!"

She grabbed the filmy curtains hanging around her bed.

"_**NOOOOOO!"**_

Wrenching them violently, she tore them from their racks.

_**"NOOOOOO!" **_

Insensible to anything but the crippling pain of her heartbreak she beat the pillow against the mattress then shredded it until feathers swirled in a mad dance of mockery all around her.

**"NO! NO! NO - **_**damn you**_** - NO!"**

Gasping for breath, her sobs harsh and uncontrolled, she cried her useless plea with each slam and tear and pull - knowing what Henri said must be true, knowing Erik would never be absent of his mask. And the blood … the blood …

Oh God, _the blood!_

She whisked the pitcher and basin off the table. The porcelain crashed to the floor in jagged pieces. Wishing to die and join him, she viciously tore at the neck of her nightdress with another anguished cry, just as the door swung open.

"Lord be merciful – _mistress!_"

Berta ran to Christine, trying to prevent her from further slashing her skin with her nails. Christine fought her off, turning her sharp nails on her like an enraged, wounded animal. At last Berta managed to haul Christine's hands away, holding them firmly against her stomach while pulling her back against her in tight embrace. Tears washed down her cheeks as she rocked Christine, whose weeping now came so deep and fierce she could no longer inhale to breathe.

Berta shook her a little in alarm. "Miss Christine!"

Christine's eyes bugged as she continued to sob and gasp hoarsely, growing fainter with the inability to take in breath.

Elizabeth appeared in the doorway, her eyes and mouth going wide with appalled shock at the sight of the damaged room and Christine, who looked like a madwoman with her hair wild and bloody scratches across her chest, and Berta bearing a similar scratch across her cheek.

"Mistress – send someone for the doctor! Quick!"

Elizabeth hurried away.

"There, lamb," Berta drew Christine to her bosom and held her tightly, rocking her like the babe she'd once been, "There, there …"

Christine barely felt aware of anything as her violent sobbing ebbed, her breathing quieted, and she slipped into a still place of darkness beyond what her mind could handle in the horror of her present reality.

.

**xXx**

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Berta opened the door to Raoul and Arabella, her eyes widening in surprise. "My lord, my lady, we were not expecting you."

"I know this really is quite dreadful of us to drop by unannounced and so early in the day," Arabella began, "and my cousin did inform me it isn't polite without first being invited, but I've been so worried about Christine and her receiving such bad tidings so soon after having been ill. We … heard the news."

Berta sadly clucked her tongue. "Miss Christine is in a sorry state to be sure. I think she actually welcomes death, though saints be merciful, I pray it doesn't come to that. Your visit might be just the tonic the poor lamb needs." Berta remembered how highly Christine had praised the de Chagnys and let them inside. "She's in the kitchen."

"The kitchen?" the Vicomte asked in surprise.

"I had Joseph carry her down so she could sit by the fire to warm herself. The chill is fierce upstairs with the turn in the weather and she just over that accursed fever."

Henri sat in the main room near a blazing fire with Elizabeth on his lap and welcomed the visitors with delight, pushing her up to stand, as he did the same. They exchanged brief pleasantries before Raoul explained the purpose of their visit.

"I apologize for the inconvenience, but my cousin isn't up to company at the moment." Henri's face flushed red.

The de Chagnys exchanged glances. "Nonetheless, we should like to see her," Raoul said with a barely polite nod. "Berta, would you please show us to the kitchen?"

"The - the kitchen?" Henri blubbered in shock.

"Certainly. I wish to see Christine for myself," Arabella said staunchly. "I have been so concerned of late, since we heard the news of –"

Raoul put a hand to her arm and she curbed whatever else she was going to say.

"As you wish." Henri curtly nodded for Berta to show them the way.

The sight that greeted the cousins caused both of them to halt in the entrance in horrified shock.

Though it was midday, Christine sat in her nightdress in a chair before the coal and peat fire, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Her feet were bare. Her face was as white as death, her cheekbones pronounced, her eyes dark-shadowed and vacant as she stared ahead at nothing. Her hair was wild and ratted, and she truly did have the appearance of a specter.

"My God!" Raoul exclaimed softly.

Arabella rushed forward and knelt by her side, pressing Christine's cold, limp hands between her warm ones. "Christine, Christine dear! It's Arabella … can you hear me?"

Christine gave no response, no sign of movement. She didn't even blink.

"How long has she been like this?" Raoul demanded of Berta.

"A week now, since the day she heard the news of poor young Erik," the servant sadly admitted. "She will not eat. I have to feed porridge to her like a babe and force her to swallow. She will not speak or move. She just sits there and stares at nothing, as if willin' herself to die."

"This is unconscionable!" Raoul swiftly moved toward Christine. To the other women's shock, he scooped her up from the chair and into his arms. Christine showed no sign of awareness that he was even there.

"Sir!" Berta cried. "I must protest."

"Her cousin evidently is too preoccupied with his newly wedded state to see to her well being. I'm taking her to The Grange where she will receive the proper care."

"I have done my best –"

"I meant no slight against you, Berta. With your task of running this household, you cannot spend each moment by her side indefinitely. She needs someone who can be with her day in and day out. We have many servants and the best physician in all of Gimmerton to aid her."

Berta gave an uneasy nod.

"No need to pack her things, we'll supply whatever she lacks." For the first time Raoul noticed her hand lying in her lap, gripped tightly around a scrap of black silk. "What's that she holds?"

"I don't know, sir. She won't let go of it. If you try to wrest it from her fist, she comes to life, spitting and clawing like a she-devil. 'Tis the only time she shows any sign of being counted among the living; but rather than risk her nails raking across my face again, I've just let her hold onto it."

"Thank you, Berta. I'll keep that in mind," he said gravely.

"I assure you, Berta, she will have the very best of care," Arabella said with a reassuring nod.

The two cousins swept out the door with Christine and to their waiting carriage.

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**A/N: And so, this chapter begins one of several areas where I'm taking a new direction ...if you're still with me, I don't think you'll be disappointed ...  
**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews! All questions will be answered soon enough. :) And now …**

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**Chapter X**

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**

The land slowly died and then gave birth to the bloom of life once again. The seasons passed with little haste, melting one into another. A blustery autumn lingered for what seemed an eternity, at last giving way to the icy chill of winter, until once more the season shifted in its plodding course and revealed the first buds of spring.

The only sign of life to remain untouched at The Grange was Christine, who continued to inhabit her silent, dark world. Unreachable. Unaware.

Both Raoul and Arabella endeavored to change Christine's sorrowful lot, but their efforts proved futile. Often he carried her out to the garden where he or his cousin sat with her, holding bright one-sided conversations. With the change to warmer weather, he took Christine to her beloved moors, both cousins hopeful that the familiar sight would urge her to rejoin the living. But she sat as quiet and listless as always, within the cradle of his arms, and the de Chagnys were fast losing hope that she would ever come back to them.

Several friends suggested Raoul would be wise to put Christine away and commit her to Bedlam. He vehemently protested, having heard of the deplorable conditions in The Bethlehem Hospital, a wretched place where the criminally insane were chained to filthy floors and cots and put in the same drab cells with the misfortunate innocent, even orphaned waifs who had nowhere else to go and no one to care what happened to them. Arabella was just as adamant that Christine not be subjected to such a horrid fate. And so, she stayed at the de Chagny residence, The Grange becoming her home and Raoul and Arabella her ever-attentive companions.

At chapel each Sunday, the cousins prayed for her soul and her sanity. Afterward, Arabella lit a candle for Christine and often told Raoul that she wished they could do more. His parents returned, curious by the arrangement but offering their approval to see Raoul give charitable aid to the daughter of the respected violinist they had both long admired. Before the dust could settle on their traveling trunks, the elder de Chagnys were off again, in the company of old acquaintances, to France this time and their friends' villa there.

Summer came and once again drifted into autumn, marking the time as one year since Christine slipped beyond reach. The days dawned brisk but not yet cold enough to cause physical discomfort. While the weather remained obliging, early one morning Raoul took Christine outdoors for some fresh air.

He gently placed her in a cane chair he'd had crafted for her, one with large wheels to easily transport her about the estate, and rolled her to the center of the sunny garden near the kitchens. Intending to step into the library to retrieve a volume of Browning's works to read aloud he began to walk away from her.

One of the barn cats had a nasty habit of slinking into the kitchen, unseen, and stealing raw fish and other feline delicacies the cook would set out during meal preparation.

Today was such a day.

The kitchen maid caught the sleek thief just as he grabbed a raw kipper in his teeth and darted from the kitchen, racing off with his prize. The little stout maid wielded a broom and chased after him. Christine's chair sat in the mouser's path of escape and for no apparent reason anyone could later discern, the cat leapt onto her lap, seeking sanctuary from the scraggly bristles of the madly waving broom.

One instant, Christine knew or understood nothing. The next, from obscure veils of thick dark fog she stared into bright golden eyes. Golden eyes of a sleek, raven-black creature that dropped something pungent onto her skirt.

"Christine," Raoul exclaimed as he rushed toward her. "Did the little beast hurt you?" He moved to grab the cat and throw it far from her.

"No. D-don't …!"

Raoul abruptly stopped and stared in shock to hear her speak, but she paid him little heed.

The encounter with the cat gave her no fright, did not even startle her. She stared into the creature's eyes, the mist that clouded her mind slowly dispersing as she connected to something real that inhabited the present world. The feline looked back, unblinking. For a long moment they stared at one another thus. Then, for the first time in a year, her arms lifted of their own accord, and she hugged the scrawny, golden-eyed cat close to her bosom.

"M-may I keep … him?" Her fervent words came slow and hoarse, stilted after so many months of disuse.

"Of course - you may have anything you desire! Whatever you wish!" Raoul dropped to his knee beside her chair and eagerly clasped her arm, his joy to have her back apparent to see. Christine felt she could have asked for the Crown Jewels of London and he would have scaled the Tower in order to grant her wish.

From that morning on she found a point of contact to cling to in her bizarre, four-legged catalyst. The sleek creature helped her remain anchored so as not to slip back into senseless oblivion, and he stayed with her, in her rooms, even slept with her on the coverlet of her bed. Such domesticated living was unheard of for any of the animals at The Grange, particularly a stray barn cat, but Christine wanted it and Raoul decreed it. And if any of the servants complained at having to clean up the added mess, they were given a stern glance or curt warning by the current master of the house.

However, while Mozart the cat quite suddenly found himself cosseted in a life of ease and plenty, matters did not come so easily for Christine on her sluggish return to their world.

After not functioning for so long, her limbs ached dreadfully when she attempted to move them. She needed to learn to use her arms and legs again, forced to take walking slow, almost needing to relearn the steps like an awkward tot. She tired easily, her speech at first slurred, her mind having difficulty in connecting words with what she wanted to say. It frustrated her to no end to possess the inability to do simple things she'd always taken for granted, as feeble as a babe. But she persisted and through the weeks showed slow and steady improvement. Two months after finding Mozart, she was almost back to herself again. Almost … and yet, so far from it.

Her limbs and tongue once more functioned properly, and she ate, conversed, even danced at a ball the de Chagnys held to celebrate what they proclaimed as her miraculous recovery – but she refused to sing when anyone asked it of her. The continual spark that once housed her fiery spirit was extinguished. She was not the same Christine she'd once been, with the breathless passion and lust for life, the mercurial temperament and potent vibrancy that set her apart from all others. Gone was the wild spirit that made her eyes sparkle with mischief and her face glow in delight, and often Christine overheard Raoul and Arabella discuss her in whispers of concern. Yet she said nothing about the change; there was no point.

That erstwhile Christine was buried with Erik, wherever he was, the part of her soul and heart that would always remain his.

She had at last accepted the awful truth of his death, though everyone was careful not to speak of him - too careful, their very evasion a continual reminder of his former presence in her life. And she _wanted_ to remember him. Wanted to recall and relive in thought and words his spirit and his fire and his passion. His breathtaking music. His habit of calling her his Little Angel. And his beautiful golden eyes ...

She looked toward the sleek cat that lay on her pillow and lazily licked its paw.

If she believed in the reincarnation of the soul and spirit upon the earth, (a sin to even ponder such things), she would believe that Erik had come back to her in feline form. The moment she first looked into the creature's glittering topaz eyes, she had felt as if Erik were shaking her out of her lengthy stupor and into reality, demanding that she come back to the world and live again just as he demanded she fight to survive in her fever-laden dream of more than a year ago. Mozart had the same mischievous bent as her lost love and the same irascible moodiness. But he also knew how to comfort, snuggling against her when she needed it and purring at the stroke of her hand. Of course she didn't believe Erik had come back as a cat – though he certainly had possessed the feral grace of one – but she wondered if he'd sent the feline to her from the other side, somehow. She believed their souls were linked, so perhaps he'd known of her inconsolable distress that had her fade away and become a living ghost.

The servants still spoke of the bizarre encounter beneath their breath, of how the formerly wild barn cat became docile in the blink of an eye and only with Christine, as if a spell were suddenly cast upon it. She had even seen one of the maids cross herself in fear when spotting Mozart, though that could have been linked to the superstition of a black cat crossing her path.

Superstitions were for the ignorant and foolish. Christine had endured far too much forced wisdom in her young life to pay heed to such inane beliefs. She had known the cruelty of sudden death - twice. The lack of divine mercy. The knowledge of cutting words …

No gypsy's curse or bizarre superstition had destroyed her life as Erik had forewarned on that last night she'd been with him. She had done that without the aid of made-up myths. And for the remainder of her days she would suffer the penance of her rash insensitivity.

**x**

With winter's arrival came the bitter cold, and the de Chagny cousins decided to take a page from Raoul's parents' lifestyle and visit warmer climes.

Arabella excitedly prepared Christine for the journey, helping her pick out shimmering bolts of material for the seamstresses to make fine day dresses and lush evening gowns while telling her of all the exciting places they would visit. Christine did not decline or accept as no invitation was given; it was merely accepted that she was part of the family and would accompany them. The only input she gave was her insistence that Mozart must come along as well.

Raoul laughed at the idea but did not refuse and Arabella admitted that she'd seen women abroad with their dogs, so didn't believe a cat would be refused aboard ship. Raoul had a soft carrier made for Christine to wear and carry her cat, though Mozart showed no docility when it came to such a confining device. To her reluctant dismay, Christine ended up needing to leave him behind in her cabin and later her hotel suite when she went with the de Chagny cousins on sightseeing tours or attended social events in whatever country they visited at the time.

And so the weeks passed in a whirl of frivolous activity.

Spain was exotically beautiful and dangerous, splendid in its fiestas and shocking with its bullfights ... Greece loomed an impressive image, breathtaking with its ancient Parthenon against a sky of such cloudless blue it hurt to look at it ... Indeed, the entire Mediterranean was a sight to behold.

For any young woman, especially one not familiar with a continual life of opulence, such travels would have been the culmination of a dream come true. For Christine, such engagements became an interesting way to pass the time. Nothing she did, no matter how glamorous she once thought it, no matter how adventuresome or romantic, gave her true pleasure. The strength of such feelings had died with Erik. She merely existed, passing from each day into the next.

She smiled when it was expected of her, socialized with the gentry and learned to behave like a lady, attending all the social soirées to which the de Chagnys were invited. Many of the nobles accepted her into their circle; many more regarded her as if she were an oddity. She knew she was the succulent fodder of frequent parlor room gossip but didn't care either way. Let the haughty old matrons and their snobbish unmarried daughters scorn her! She didn't care for their kind's approval and never had. She only ever coveted the esteem of four people, two of whom were now dead, and two who were determined to instill her with life.

Arabella, for her habit of talking about anything and nothing filled the awkward silences and had become a dear friend. Christine witnessed in her a beauty not at first discernable with the young woman's smallish eyes and beaklike nose and hoped Arabella would forget how cold Christine was to her in those first days at The Grange. Raoul was the perfect gentleman, a most considerate companion. She and everyone else who spent an hour in their presence could not help but be aware of the special attention he set aside exclusively for her. The tenderness in his eyes when he looked her way gave her a cozy feeling of protection. Indeed, had her heart been hers to give, Christine would consider him an ideal husband.

In the spring, before returning home, they visited France, where the de Chagny family had its origins. During his last brief stopover home, the Comte had told Raoul that if he were to one day act in his stead, he must learn about the company to which he would offer financial assistance. And so, Christine attended her first opera in Paris, sitting in Box Five, with Raoul beside her. Arabella had earlier pleaded a headache and chosen not to attend, instead turning in early for the evening at the hotel.

The orchestral music that soared toward the rafters was enticing, sublime. The accomplished voices of many of the singers rekindled a spark of desire inside Christine, to be part of such a company. A hopeless thought since she couldn't sing - could _never _again sing. With furrowed brow, she concentrated on the stage and the river garden setting, identifying with the lovelorn pair whose tragic story ended before it began.

_He_ also had sworn that he would never leave her …

At times like this, while listening to the music they both adored and remembering their shared dream to perform in such a place, she felt as if Erik were truly there with her. She could almost imagine him close, his presence strong - so much so that with her heart beating wildly, she looked over her shoulder toward the box's entrance, half expecting to find him standing there watching her.

But the thick crimson curtain did not stir, and no one else stood or sat near.

At the curious lift of Raoul's brow she shrugged with a faint smile and returned her attention to the story unfolding onstage, her heartbeats and faint breaths remaining swift and expectant. In spirit she felt Erik would always be with her, especially during such times. She blinked back tears to realize he was truly gone, and when Raoul reached for her gloved hand to hold it she did not pull away, thankful for his strength and comfort.

The opera concluded in a glorious finale of tragedy and loss, and foul weather echoed the sentiment as it tore apart the evening sky.

Despite Raoul's attempt to keep Christine protected from the downpour, the shower did its damage, her hair and silks both sodden once they arrived to the nearby hotel, where Raoul earlier secured rooms. A distressed young maid approached upon their arrival.

"I am so sorry, miss, but the cat, it has escaped." She fearfully explained that when she opened the door to Christine's suite, the cat sped away.

Raoul ordered a search made in the hotel, even directly outside it, and Christine personally insisted on searching the corridors of the floor their rooms were on, loath to stand by and do nothing.

Yet despite all efforts, no one could find the sleek and wily black animal.

They had come to a stop in front of his hotel door when Christine received the upsetting news from the last party to search, who then swiftly excused themselves and left. Seeing her despair, Raoul drew her into his arms and held her while Christine laid her cheek against his shoulder and silently cried for her golden-eyed friend. Not wishing her misery or dishevelment to be seen by any passersby and cause her further embarrassment, she allowed him to take her into his private sitting room. There she stayed while he spoke in gentle undertones, until she calmed into a slumberous daze, exhausted from the evening's occurrences. More than an hour had elapsed by the time he escorted her back to her room and, with a gentle kiss to her brow, bade her goodnight at her door.

It was with a heavy heart Christine returned to England without her beloved pet. She solemnly agreed with Arabella's quiet assurances that the cat could fend for itself and there existed no need to worry about the fate of the sly creature, but Christine still missed her little friend.

On their first night home at the de Chagny residence, Arabella visited Christine in her room, upset to see her so miserable. "We could always find you another cat," she suggested in an attempt to help.

"It's not that," Christine said sadly. "This might sound rather foolish, but he reminded me of someone … of Erik. His eyes, that is. And other traits he had, too."

It was the first occasion she had spoken his name since she'd drifted back from her trance-like state months before. Arabella's eyes widened in amazement, her brow clearing in relief. She moved to the bed and took a seat beside Christine.

"Tell me about him. Your Erik. That is, if you wish to ..."

Warmed by her soft words of encouragement and surprised to hear her friend state what she had long wanted to reveal, Christine hugged her in gratitude. "Oh, yes. I would very much like to tell you about him." After feeling the coveted nearness of his spirit in Paris, she could almost force herself to imagine the past year never happened, and she pulled back from their embrace to speak eagerly of the one man who as yet possessed her entire being. Indeed, telling of their experiences made her feel as if he were actually there, close by, as if he'd never left The Heights.

The full moon washed through a chink in the draperies, bathing the center of the room and the two women in ghostly white. The glowing stream made a gradual disappearance as the beacon rose high overhead and the lamp burned low, and still Christine spoke of her treasured memories. She told of the long ago stormy night when she first became friends with her dear soul mate … of some of their wildest adventures on the moors as children and their narrow escapes, and how at those times especially, Erik acted as her guide and protector.

All the while she spoke of their shared history together, Arabella listened in wide-eyed wonder, watching as Christine's face sparkled with a life and animation she had not seen in more than a year.

**xXx**

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**A/N: I know there was quite a bit of narrative and telling in this chapter (sorry), but I didn't see another way to write this and make it work since I didn't want to draw the months out over chapters - I felt a bit of "tell" necessary since I was dealing with long passages of time (over a year). Thanks for reading!**


	11. Chapter 11

**Thanks to some wonderful advice from ****NicoleMarieDubois**** (thank you!), I have revamped this, hopefully to improve and made it more show and less tell, while keeping all necessary information intact. Enjoy! :)**

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**XI**

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The night air blew cold as Christine stood on the balcony, away from the dancing and near the same fated tree she and Erik once perched in to watch a similar event. Sadly she stared out over the moon-washed moors, feeling as if she could hear the ghostly laughter of two small, innocent children who once upon a happier time had made this rugged, wild land their playground.

She gave a wistful, bittersweet exhalation of breath, crossing her arms and rubbing them, attempting to recapture a fraction of warmth forever lost. In the wind, she could hear the lingering whisper of music, the ghosts of happy days gone by...

Often, she had sung for him. When he was a boy, she persuaded him to sing with her – and had been astonished by the sweet, enduring beauty of his voice. Once he grew into a man, he declined to sing, telling her he wished only to hear his "angel's voice" as he played…she wished now she had insisted. How she would have loved to carry the memory of his voice singing to her. He felt so far away…

She once told him neither angels nor demons nor mortals could separate them.

But his Little Angel, with her devilish words, had done just that.

_"Christine…?"_

Her heart gave a mad jump at the sudden shock of a voice, low and barely heard over the music. For a moment she thought…

No, that was ... impossible.

Turning to see, she hesitated a moment, pushing aside a rush of disappointment, and held her hands out to her gallant host. "Raoul."

"What are you doing here all alone?" He moved forward, taking hold of her gloves. "Does the party not please you?"

"Of course, it's wonderful," she hurried to say, not wishing to injure his feelings. Even the balls, as grand as they were, had lost their allure and sparkle. This birthday ball the de Chagnys held in honor of her eighteenth year, as sweet as it was for them to remember her, didn't hold a candle to carefree birthdays shared with Erik or the simple gifts he'd given: fresh flowers from the heath, his beautiful poems; an angel he carved from a stick of wood; the incredible gift of his music. "I only needed a breath of air. It's so very warm in there."

"Are you feeling unwell? Would you care to retire to your room and lie down for a spell. I can find a maid to tend you…"

"No, Raoul. I'm fine." She forced a smile. During the bleakest of days, when everything viciously served to remind her of Erik, Christine had two dear friends bent on making her remember that her place was now with them.

The concern faded and a hopeful light entered his eyes. "In that case, perhaps you would care to dance?"

The thought of revisiting the crowded floor where she was a constant source of curiosity brought little appeal. "I think instead I would like a slice of cake."

"Of course." He smiled and inclined his head in a genial bow. "I will see to it at once."

He left and she moved from the balcony to the outskirts of the ballroom, turning her attention to the dancing couples. Arabella waltzed by with a dignified looking gentleman - a baron or duke, she could not recall - the poor man bumbling in his steps, while Arabella appeared to be having a marvelous time in spite of it, doing what she loved best.

Christine shook her head in weary amusement of the last six months.

Since their return from France, Arabella worked with diligence to distract her, clearly anxious that Christine might again sink into despair after losing her dear little Mozart. To Raoul's horror and Christine's surprise, Arabella had danced in her fluffy tutu and taught Christine exercises for the ballet in the ballroom, insisting they would help strengthen muscles still weak from so long being idle. Wanting to please her friend, she submitted to the amateur lessons and actually found relief to expunge her lingering heartache in excruciating movements that tested every limb and muscle. She soon regarded the elegant ballet as an outlet for her grief and anger. The de Chagnys had watched in startled shock as Christine gave every part of herself to the dance, her talent and inborn grace rising to the fore, even if some movements were expressions she created, stemming from the violent surge of feelings unspoken and not the conventional steps practiced within professional troupes.

But this maneuvered dance held no appeal, not tonight, except as a bystander and even that grew wearying. As Christine watched those dancing swirl to and fro in their structured steps, Raoul returned with her cake. Thanking him, she took the plate and a small bite of the buttery delicacy, though she wasn't hungry. The cake had been a convenient excuse to avoid a waltz.

An elderly bearded gentleman approached and spoke with Raoul. She had been introduced to so many, she could not recall his name or title and gave a weak nod that he returned. The men instantly engaged in conversation. Left to herself, Christine moved a step away, not at all inclined to hear about unofficial contracts and current politics which was what the men discussed.

Within the wide mesh of dancers, far on the other side of the room, the tall, lithe figure of a man caught her eye…Christine frowned and stared more closely at the dancing couple. As he pivoted, she glimpsed a black mask.

The plate fell from her lifeless hands. The blood drained from her numb face.

"Christine?" Raoul was suddenly at her elbow. "My God, what happened?"

She walked through the broken crystal and cake, heedless of sharp edges crunching beneath flat slippers. "It's him…"she breathed and would have walked straight into the horde of dancing couples to investigate if Raoul had not caught her arm.

"Christine, please. Get hold of yourself, my dear. Who do you see?"

The male dancer twirled around again. The mask was gone.

She put a hand to her head, feeling dizzy. "I - I'm sorry. I was mistaken. Oh, dear, I did make a mess of the cake, didn't I?" She attempted to laugh but it came out hoarse.

"Forget the cake, a servant will tend to it." Even as he spoke, a girl hurried forward and with a slight bob of her head crouched to gather the glass into a napkin. "Are _you_ all right?" he insisted.

"Only a bit lightheaded. I think I will have that lie down. I hope your guests don't think me rude."

"Never mind that. Arabella?"

Christine watched her friend approach, her thick brows arched in curiosity.

"Would you help Christine to her room?"

Arabella looked at him strangely, then at Christine. "Are you not feeling well?"

"I'm alright, honestly. Please, I just would like to rest for a bit." Only she was not all right and she wasn't sure she would know how it felt to be sane again.

This was not the first time she thought she had seen Erik in a crowd, and she doubted it would be the last.

X

Perhaps it had been her distress that initially drew him to her, a beautiful damsel in need of his aid. But Raoul fell more in love with Christine with the passage of each dawn.

Once the ball ended, he looked for her but did not find her in her sitting room. A knock at her private chamber door assured him she wasn't in her bedroom either. Upon departing, he almost ran into a loitering guest in the corridor. The elderly man's brows lifted in ill conceived humor upon notice of the feminine drawing room that Raoul exited, his smile lecherous as his eyes darted to peer inside, while Raoul firmly closed the door, his back to it. Because Lord Grafton was an old friend of his father, he tolerated the lewd unspoken suggestion without bringing up the matter and answered his query with regard to an upcoming hunt, all the while steering the man toward the staircase and front door.

He knew that those in the village and out of it gossiped about the unusual arrangement with regard to Christine's continued presence at The Grange. Many had written her off as his mistress. Soon, if he had his way, there would be no more loathsome insinuations and he could show Christine proudly off, as his bride.

Bidding a brief farewell to his annoying guest, he searched other rooms, again entering the ballroom, now empty of revelers. He wasn't sure whether to be relieved or distressed to again find her standing alone on the balcony staring up in wistful contemplation at the tree from which she once fell.

And he knew, yet again, she was thinking about him. Had his rival been flesh, he could fight that and win. But a ghost had no substance…except forever in her mind.

The moonlight glimmered in her upswept curls, the simple silver locket she always wore, that she told him her Papa had given her, accentuating her slender throat like none of the other women's jewels did for them. Her gown was of dove-gray silk, a perfect foil for her dark beauty.

After the events of the evening, after again finding her here, like this, Raoul could no longer remain silent.

"Christine …"

She turned to look and smiled at him, feeling almost remorseful that he should find her out here like this again. After seeing the man in the mask, or rather, the mirage of her beloved, she had needed to separate herself from everyone. Rest had done nothing for her body when her mind was constantly attuned to every noise, trying to hear _his_ voice in the fading memories, and she had again found herself taking the stairs down to the place where it all began.

Raoul came up beside her, taking her gloved hand in his and holding it up between them. "There is something I must say that has been on my heart for some time. You must know how I have come to feel about you, how I have long felt, ever since you first came to The Grange … I love you. I want to love you always."

Christine stared at him in wide-eyed wonder, her heart beating fast. This might be the answer, the way to forget. He was the perfect host, the sweetest escort, the most handsome man at the ball…

…and when his lips slowly lowered to hers, she did not pull away.

Desperate to feel warm and alive again she pressed closer to this storybook prince who had rescued her on more than one occasion and perhaps could eliminate the constant hollow ache of loss that throbbed inside what was left of her withered heart.

He took her silent invitation, wrapping her chilled body in his warm arms, deepening the kiss with a soft groan. His tongue sought hers and she gave it, tasting his kiss, tasting him and the hint of spicy after dinner brandy the gentlemen drank at social gatherings. Being in his embrace felt pleasant and restful. She could grow accustomed to this, could find for herself a life here and live out her days beside him, becoming a mother to his children …

The image of eyes like golden fire and kisses that melted her very insides captured her mind, and she pulled away with a sharp pinprick of shock.

"Christine, what is it?" His deep blue eyes regarded her with concern.

She blinked rapidly, flustered and confused. She could not do this…

"Raoul, you mustn't. I – I'm so sorry." She tried to speak and laid her glove against his sleeve. "You're a wonderful man. Any woman would be most fortunate to receive your attentions … but …"

"But?" He looked at her, anxious yet expectant.

"For me, there will only ever be one man."

The glow in his eyes dimmed. "Erik."

"Yes. I'm sorry."

He shook his head. "Christine, you cannot stop living. You have to go on, to _live_ your life and not just exist in it. You're far too precious to live alone and never marry. You deserve to be pampered and petted and loved to the fullest extreme. I want to give you all of those things. I can make you happy, Little Lotte. Perhaps, in time, you can learn to love me. Only give me that morsel of hope, and I will wait for you, as long as it takes …"

The old nickname cut into her heart, though she knew he didn't mean to hurt her. His words were so hopeful, so endearing, she found herself earnestly wishing she could give him the answer he craved. Perhaps he was right … perhaps she could do as he asked.

He looked into her eyes and took her hand in his. Through her glove his touch was warm, gentle, the caress of his thumb sweet and reassuring …

They had shared some companionable moments since she'd been at The Grange and during their travels. Conceivably, in time, she could give herself to him … _but never in the same wildly passionate and unreserved manner that you felt for Erik,_ her conscience vehemently protested, _still feel_. And bitterly she succumbed to the defeat of such honesty.

It was, perhaps, to her grave misfortune – but she loved a ghost.

_Years_ had passed since the ill-fated night Erik left, and her feelings had not altered for him. She dwelled in memories as if they were air and she needed them to exist; at times she wished she could cut them out of her before her obsession with him completely destroyed her. During desperate moments such as tonight's bizarre parade of them, she resolved to do what she must to try to expunge his memory. And it was with that knowledge she knew the answer she must give, the only answer she could give.

She might share Raoul's tender kisses and one day his bed and his life, even find a source of contentment and pleasure in his arms. But _he_ deserved much more than just the shell of her body. He deserved her heart, the essence of all she was. And because he was so good and kind, indeed, the sweetest man she had known, she could not be selfish and chain him to marriage to a woman without a soul, with a heart taken by another, a woman who could never give him even half the love that should be his to possess.

"No." She shook her head softly, slipping her hand from his hold. "It's best this way. You must marry a woman who will love you for the man you are, who will love you madly and completely and unreservedly, with no phantoms haunting her life."

He opened his mouth to protest, but she laid her gloved fingertips gently against his lips. "No, please. Don't. Nothing you can say will change my mind. I've decided. In fact …" She had not thought of it until now, but knew it was for the best. "It's time I went home. Back to The Heights."

"No, Christine. _This_ is your home now. I promise, I'll not push the issue. We can go on as we have before. Only do not go back to that place and that cousin of yours. I don't trust him."

To remain would be so easy. Why was he making this so difficult? All of her life she had catered to what _Christine_ wanted, bent on satisfying _Christine's_ whims and pleasing _Christine's_ desires, even in recent years when she'd taken little or no joy from them. If Raoul were anything less than the man he was, she might yield to his wishes and simply live out her life at The Grange as she had been doing, as something of a ward but not exactly that, allowing her friends to lavish on her their many kindnesses. But his long-hidden devotion had been irrevocably aired.

They could never go on as they had before.

"Raoul, dear Raoul ... " She shook her head, her tone wistful. "Only you would say something so kind after I told you I cannot marry you. Please don't fear for me. I know how to deal with my cousin. Elizabeth was kind when I ..." Christine helplessly shook her head, not even wanting to allude to those horrible weeks of her greatest sorrow. "I should be there to help her, as she once helped me." A few days ago Arabella had shared news from The Grange that she'd heard from her ladies' maid, who in turn heard at the market that Elizabeth was bedridden and had been for weeks. "I could stay, but in time you may come to regret my presence here, even resent me for not loving you. I _do_ love you but not as you would wish me to." It also worried her that if she gave in and they did marry she might unwittingly come to resent him for not being Erik.

He didn't look convinced. "Christine, I could never harbor ill feeling toward you."

"Perhaps not." She smiled sadly. "But I won't take that risk. Your friendship is too dear to me. I couldn't bear to lose it, especially after having lost so much else in my life."

Unwanted tears filmed her eyes, and again he drew her close, holding her in comfort. It was a long moment before he spoke. "Know that our home is yours, the door is always open. If you ever have need of anything – and I mean anything, Christine – do not hesitate to come to us."

"Thank you, for every one of your many kindnesses." She kissed his cheek then hurried away, not wishing to prolong such a difficult moment.

"I will not give up on you, Christine. On us …."

His distressing words came faint, as if he spoke to himself, but she heard and chose not to acknowledge him. Could not.

Tears choked her throat. Somehow, she must now say goodbye to Arabella and equally dreaded the task though she hoped her friend would agree to come visit. It was too much to ask Raoul to do so after her rejection of his proposal, after the way he still clearly felt. It would be difficult to leave The Grange, what had been to her a lovely resting place to heal as much as she ever would, to start anew. The prospect of piecing together the scattered fragments of her life was overwhelming, even terrifying …

But Christine knew the time had come to try.

xXx


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Thank you for everything! :) Patience, my phriends, (yes, good call on the author's mind and the plans conceived -*rubs hands together and cackles in maniacal glee…) We are getting very close to the end of Part I …**

* * *

**XII**

.**  
**

Her arrival to The Heights did not come with the fanfare that accompanied her last homecoming, when the de Chagny carriage had deposited Christine within the open courtyard in her yellow silk dress.

That day seemed a lifetime ago. That day … when she lived her greatest desire, the fire and passion Erik had given her as she experienced her first and last taste of what it felt to be a woman, _his _woman. Then no more than an hour later she suffered her ultimate fear, when he had ridden out of her life for good. Whenever her cruel mind wandered to the terrible lure of that cataclysmic night, she liked to think that once he calmed, he would have realized she'd spoken out of childish anger and come back to her, had he been able.

But it was foolish to speculate on what she would never know. Erik was dead. And she must go on living since no one would let her die too.

Christine shook herself from her somber deliberation and looked around the quiet courtyard - too quiet for this time of day. She frowned.

Things were in grave disrepair. The gate hung crooked, a window she assumed broken had been covered with boards and the pebbled courtyard was littered with bits and pieces of trash. She left her trunk where the footman had deposited it at her request, hardly able to lug the huge thing upstairs on her own.

In the kitchen, she found Henri slumped over in a chair, a bottle of whiskey in his hand and spilled over onto the table where a half empty glass stood. He looked up at her through bleary eyes. "So, you've come back." He mockingly toasted her and took a drink. "Wha' happened? Did the high and mighty Vicomte tire of you an' throw you out on your ear for the peasant whore you are?"

Christine scowled and left the room.

"If no' for my father's generosity," he called after her, "You and your father would have found yourselves in the workhouse or debtors' prison!"

She had heard it all before and turned a deaf ear to his drunken ramblings. Upstairs, she found Elizabeth in her room, still in bed. Her reception to Christine's return was almost frantic in its relief. Startled at her frailty, her pallid face, and the dark circles ringing her eyes, Christine tried not to exhibit her shock.

"I'm so glad you've come," Elizabeth whispered. "Are you here for a visit? How lovely. It's been quite lonely here. Tell me, how long do you plan to stay?"

"Elizabeth, what's wrong? Are you terribly ill? Has the doctor been to see you?"

Somewhat brusque, perhaps, but Christine didn't wish to tiptoe around the facts. She preferred to know the entire truth up front and deal with it rather than to putter about endlessly in a tiring game of useless words. A fault that hadn't won her friends in Raoul and Arabella's social circles.

Elizabeth blinked. "I … well, that is …" Her face grew rosy, almost giving the appearance of health. "I suppose you should know, that is, if you plan to stay …"

Christine nodded impatiently.

"I am with child." The hushed words came grieved, more of a confession of guilt than an expression of joy. "Henri was so upset when I lost the last two. I am, that is, it will be some time yet, but the doctor fears complications if I don't get complete bed rest."

Christine was stunned by the news though she could not reason why. Elizabeth and Henri had been married for well over two years. "Don't fret. I'm here to help now." She squeezed her hand in reassurance then noticed the bruise above her wrist. She frowned.

"Elizabeth, is Henri unkind to you?"

"Unkind?"

"Does he hit you?"

She looked mortified and turned her head away.

"It's alright," Christine soothed. "I grew up with him, remember."

She had been the recipient of more than one of his backhanded slaps, though when Erik had been near, Henri never dared. Even if Erik had been only a servant and Henri the master, the fierce threat burning in Erik's eyes, the first and only time he learned of Henri's violent behavior toward Christine, had been enough to intimidate her cousin and keep him distant.

Elizabeth's teeth pulled at her lower lip. "He hasn't, not since I carry another child." At hearing her own words, she looked up nervously, as if realizing what she'd just said. "It's not so bad. Not really. Only when he drinks too heavily."

Christine studied the frail woman, not much older than she. Still attractive, though her looks had begun to fade like a fragile rose lacking sunlight, she was a kind and gentle soul.

"Why _ever_ did you marry him?" she voiced the question that had surfaced in her mind on their first meeting.

Elizabeth pulled her billowy sleeve over the faded bruise. "My father and Henri are good friends. After my mother died quite suddenly, my father became a bitter man. He began visiting … areas of entertainment that Henri frequented and my father once investigated."

"Investigated?"

"He is chief constable where I lived, in Yorkshire. At one time he was a detective with Scotland Yard."

Christine grimly nodded. The places of entertainment undoubtedly referred to brothels and gaming establishments, since that was where her cousin had spent most of his time, traveling from county to county on his binges, disappearing for days or weeks on end.

The sharp report of a gunshot went off outside.

Startled, Christine hurried to the window overlooking the courtyard. Henri stood, the term misleading since he could barely stand, waving his rifle and staring up at the cloudy sky.

"He's likely shooting at the pigeons again," Elizabeth said wearily from her bed.

Christine frowned, hardly thinking the courtyard a place for hunting. "Where are the servants?"

"One night during one of his … when he'd been drinking, he discharged them. Berta and Joseph are the only ones who ignored him and stayed. Berta's at market and Joseph is visiting the minister, likely to dig poor old man Riley's grave."

Christine pondered this. So Riley, who'd looked as old as Methuselah when she was a child, had passed on to meet his maker. It seemed she wasn't the only soul whom Death mocked in taking his time … With narrowed eyes she watched the disgusting reprobate swaying on his feet in the courtyard. Maybe he'd do them all a favor and shoot his fool head off and Joseph could dig two graves. Death would surely pounce on the opportunity to take such a black scoundrel. She turned from the window.

"Now that I'm home, I'll see to keeping the household affairs in order, so please don't fret or worry yourself with any of that. You rest. I'll return later to see if you need anything."

"I really am so very grateful that you've come home," Elizabeth said meekly, and Christine managed a smile before closing the door.

She wished she could say the same.

Entering her gable room, she found it covered in a thin film of dust. However, everything looked untouched and only a light cleaning would surely set things right. Her dresses that had been left behind were a different matter.

Over two years, and her breasts had grown fuller, her waist slighter and her height taller. Likely, her hips had also spread, but with the profuse expanse of skirt it was difficult to tell. Even with the great amount of weight she'd lost during her travail, her curves had expanded. She shook her head. This would never do! The ill-fitting dresses barely left room to breathe, and she only just managed to peel herself out of a snug gray woolen. At sight of the yellow silk, she inhaled a swift, startled breath. With a trembling hand she lifted the gown from the clothes cupboard and pulled it toward her. It still bore soil stains. Tears glazed her eyes.

A foolish notion, yes, but she couldn't resist the lure.

Smoothing the silk over her body, she wasn't surprised to see this dress also fit badly though it was the newest of what she had there. She watched her hands slowly sweep downward over her breasts and stomach, thinking of other hands, long and slender musician's hands, having done the same. Closing her eyes briefly in quiet sorrow, thinking she would give _anything_ to again experience his touch, she turned her head slightly, shocked to notice her door now stood ajar.

Henri watched her, a disgusting glint in his eyes.

Incensed that he should see her during such a poignant and vulnerable moment - that he should see her at all! - she marched toward him. "If you _ever_ look at me like that again or even cross the threshold of my room, I shall scratch your eyeballs out of their sockets and feed them to the pigs," she hissed vehemently, slamming the door in his face with a return of her old fire.

But so long a dying ember with not enough fuel to sustain it, even with the fanning of her wrath, the flame of her spirit quickly extinguished. And again she felt wretched, helpless and torn.

Hurriedly she pulled off the yellow silk and donned the extravagant day dress she'd arrived in, deciding it would have to do. Perhaps Joseph and Berta could help lift her heavy trunk waiting in the courtyard and filled with the dresses Arabella had insisted she take with her.

Thankfully there was no sign of Henri in the corridor. Before she went downstairs, she walked to the opposite gable room. Tentatively, she opened the door - and took in a sharp breath, bringing it closed with a rapid thud.

No sign of Erik had been left, the room absent of all furnishings. The sight of such emptiness brought a fresh stab of pain to the hollow place where her heart had once been.

Years had elapsed since he'd been forced to find shelter in the stables; however, his room had been untouched up until Raoul and Arabella had taken her from the Heights. She had hoped to find at least one memento, no matter how small, but could expect no less from her despicable cousin than to wipe out every trace of Erik as if he never existed.

Sadly, she made an inspection of the rest of the rooms, finding some dusty and all in disrepair. Poor Berta must not be well to have let it come to this; with the absence of the other servants all would have fallen to her shoulders. Papa would have been horrified to see such neglect of his beloved Heights! Henri's father may have owned the building and the land it sat on, but after her uncle's death, Papa had been the loving caretaker. She, too, would be like Papa. She would give her childhood home all the care and love it deserved.

Needing to see what else would need mending, she stepped out of the house and into the courtyard. Her feet led her along a familiar path, one she had taken many times, and she went into the stables.

She looked up at the hayloft in bittersweet remembrance. She could no more prevent herself from climbing the ladder than she could cease to breathe.

Fresh hay filled the loft, and buried beneath the sweet smelling piles, hidden in its corner crevice of the wall, she was startled and elated to find Erik's box where he'd left it. Joseph was too old and crippled to climb there to find and dispose of it. The former stable hands must have missed it or not cared to mention it to Henri. Their oversight was her gain. This was exactly what she'd been hoping for! To lay hungry claim to whatever morsel was left behind of who her Angel had been - and she had been granted his entire box of treasures!

Cherishing her unexpected find, she caressed the box like a dear friend, running unsteady fingertips along the graceful swirls that Erik had carved to decorate the wood. Holding her breath, Christine lifted the lid and inhaled softly.

A fresh onslaught of tears burned her eyes as she gently retrieved his precious compositions from their place of concealment. Her fingertips brushed the bold notes and staffs that his hands had painstakingly etched and she embraced the papers against her bosom.

She fell back in the sweet smelling hay and looked through the cracks in the roof as they had so often done together, while lying side by side.

"Oh God, Erik - will this pain _never end?_ I miss you so much sometimes I can't breathe…" She let out a little despondent sigh and closed her eyes. "I haven't visited the moors since you left - I cannot. Without you there it's only rock and heath. The memories come so strong at times, I fear that if I did visit I would never want to leave and wish only to perish on the rocks where we shared our last true happy moment. And my love, I have learned to live on, though the lesson was fierce. So you see why I cannot go there …"

How many times had she spoken to him in the lonely night? How many times had she stood on the balcony and looked at the stars ... sometimes with slow tears of bitter regret, other times with a sad smile of tender reminiscence, wondering if he watched her…

How unfair that she could not see him!

The loft was filled with memories, too – memories of their talks and laughter, memories of their arguments and scuffles … the memory of their first kiss.

Only one memory of all of them had wretchedly left her.

In a sad sort of bitter irony, as the months had slowly drifted into years, the memory of his face became less detailed in her mind. And she hated that! Hated that she had no portrait of him upon which to cast her adoring gaze. His amazing eyes she would never forget, and she remembered the color of his hair had been a rich, sable brown. But the features she had seen below the cloth of his mask had become fuzzy with the relentless passage of days and months and she wanted to weep for the injustice of such cruelty!

Aware that she must stop such painful reminiscing or go mad, she forced herself to sit up. There was much work to be done before night fell. After two years of having her every need met and being waited on by servants, often before she realized a need existed, she would have to learn how to manage a household.

She moved to replace the papers, trying to think of a better hiding place, perhaps in her own room - when she saw it. Face up in the box, another paper held words.

In curiosity, she lifted the page into her hand. Her pulse raced and her throat tightened as she scanned his artistic, imperious handwriting – what looked like lines of a poem he'd been in the midst of creating, some lines spaced far apart as if he wished to add more in between:

.

_Touch me, trust me._

_Share with me this love,_

_This lifetime _

_Each night and each morning,_

_Christine, share with me._

_.  
_

_Let your darker side yield_

_To the fire that floods the soul!_

_Let the dream build._

_The time is past,_

_We can't go back now._

_.  
_

_The bridge is crossed._

_No backward glances._

_.  
_

_Passions will merge._

_Abandon defenses._

_.  
_

_Let the dream begin …_

_Surrender only to me._

_.  
_

Her breathing escalated as she read the proof of what she'd longed for. Erik _loved_ her! He _wanted to marry_ _her!_ Had he been composing this to give as his way of asking her to be his wife? That sounded just like something he might do!

In the harsh rasp of one cruel instant, blind elation collided with horrific despair - as vicious memory rose to taunt her, to remind her…

Oh, God … no … _no!_

_What had she done?_

Her discovery brought the worst kind of perverted, sadistic joy – the kind in knowing she could have had all she ever wanted - every last wondrous particle of it- if not for her foolish pride that had maliciously destroyed any chance of her knowing such happiness…

The black talons of grief rose from the bower where she had tried to bury it. It seized her shuddering breath and ripped through her heart. The heart Christine was mistaken to believe she no longer had.

That heart now pounded out its agony, every beat calling her a murderer. For she had surely murdered him, murdered their love, murdered their future together - just as if she had been the one to pull that godforsaken trigger and put the bullet in his flesh!

She doubled over as a new pain erupted.

Erik had loved her… He had _loved_ _her! He would have married her!_

Her returned heart bled only to shatter a second time in her life as she hugged herself fiercely, rocking in her grief …

She had not known a person could die twice inside in one lifetime.

God - How was she to bear this! Why had she ever looked into that box? Erik _had_ _warned_ _her_ never to say what she didn't mean – _oh, God … why hadn't she __**listened**__ to him! Why had she been so foolish?_

_**Why hadn't he realized?**_

_**Why hadn't she?**_

The tears came harder still. She wished to crawl into the hay and hold his unfinished compositions close, these beautiful lyrics, her precious memories - and escape this horrid, empty life. To lose herself in all of what could have been, all of what _should_ have been…

And for a time she did.

But all too soon the grim awareness of responsibility demanded her return… Elizabeth needed her. She had vowed to help Henri's poor wife in whatever way she could. The frail woman was no match against such a brute.

Yes … yes, she must go back. Berta would need her help too. Christine had been selfish her entire life and lost everything that mattered because of it. She would not be selfish again and invite further destruction … somehow, she must become what they needed her to be.

Unable to release the paper that both comforted and condemned her, she gently folded his never-to-be completed poem in a small square and slipped it into her bodice next to a folded scrap of black silk. Later, when the household slept, she would come for the box and take it to her room. She secreted it back in its hiding place, deep beneath the hay.

Still shaking from her misery, she climbed down the ladder and looked into the horses' stalls. The animals looked well cared for, their tacks and saddles shiny on the wall, clearly Joseph's doing. Suddenly she stopped in front of an empty stall and stared hard.

Turning on her heel, she raced for the house. She found Henri and came to a breathless stop, confronting him where he sprawled on the sofa in the parlor.

"Where is Cesar!"

"What?"

"Your horse! The horse that your friend thought stolen! Why would a man shoot another man that he presumed to be a thief _and_ _not bring back his horse?_"

He impatiently waved her away.

"_**Tell me!**_**"**

"The horse bolted at the series of gunshots …ran off. Never saw it again."

The distant hope that had unfurled frayed to nothing. She had hoped Henri had lied, that the horse was gone because its rider had gotten away.

Such hopes were folly of course. After more than two years, she would have heard if he was alive.

Without another word, Christine left the room, moving for the stairs …

_SERIES of gunshots? _

… and stopped abruptly, feeling as if she herself had been shot.

xXx

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**A/N: Pretty bleak so far, but things are about to take a wild ride…**

**Get ready…**


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews! :) … (caution: strong moment of violence at end of chapter. When you get there you'll understand why I felt a precaution necessary and will be able to skim those two paragraphs if you can't handle that type scenario, which really was necessary to this story…)**

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**XIII**

.

_Series of gunshots… _

There had been more than one.

_Series of gunshots…_

The hunter had fired more than once.

_Series of gunshots…_

Dear God, _**had**_ _the rider gotten away?_

In the days, Christine desperately prayed for the possibility, but the precious, awful scrap of cloth she carried near her heart made a mockery of such hope. Erik never, _never_ would have let anyone get close enough to take his mask from his face if he could prevent it…

The mask streaked with his blood.

In the nights, the image of Erik's beautiful body riddled with loathsome bullets tortured her dreams. That he had died in and of itself was a tragedy, the thought of one bullet hard to bear.

The thought of many was excruciating.

Sometimes she felt resigned to his death. Other times she warred with the idea that he _could_ have escaped, that he might still be alive. On one such afternoon she could refrain no longer from approaching Henri with her suspicions.

"My friend wanted to make sure the wretch was dead," he callously stated. "One bullet doesn't always do the job, my dear."

Swallowing through the mist of pain and the lump of her bitter anger as all frail hope crumbled, she refused to give Henri the satisfaction of seeing her grief. Wishing to visit the place where her dear Erik rested, she glared at her vile cousin.

"Where is his grave?" Her query came soft and clipped.

He waved her away with his usual impatience. "Don't know, don't care. Alongside the road near Gimmerton more than likely, if he even took the trouble to bury the corpse. Might have left him for the birds and wild animals. Even if I did know, I wouldn't tell you."

Christine gritted her teeth. "Why are you so hateful? Have you no respect for the dead?"

To his family and servants, Henri was a monster, having treated Erik the worst. To his few reprobate friends that rarely visited, she'd seen a different side, almost kind, as if he actually cared.

"That leech deserves none of my respect in this world or in the hereafter," he practically roared, the drink loosening his tongue. "Damned gypsy should have never come to The Heights - your father should have never brought him! He stole what belonged to me!"

Christine regarded him in absolute disbelief. "_Stole_ from _you_? _You left him __**nothing**__!_ Not a room in this house! Not even decent clothes to wear or a bed!"

"Uncle thought that damned gypsy was so smart, so much better at everything than I!" Henri went on, lost in the past. "That excuse for a human with its twisted face - he thought _**better than I!**_ Well, now see who's had the last laugh! He brought the gypsy cur that night and didn't bring the whistle he promised! Said it must have fallen out along the road - and all because he tended to that filthy vagabond beast."

"A whistle?" Christine blinked. "You despised Erik because of _a whistle?"_

She had the insane urge to laugh but the truth was too petty and tragic to believe when held up against the enormity of all Erik had suffered.

"That, and more. He should have never come… didn't belong." He took a shot, draining his glass.

She looked down at him with stone calm revulsion, lifting her chin high. "I actually think I pity you. You are the beast, alone and drowning in your whiskey with no one to care if _you_ live or die."

He shot up from the chair and grabbed her arm. "I don't want your pity! And I sure as hell don't want you trying to reform me! I got enough of that from Joseph and your _dearly departed father_."

Rage lit her spirit. "I would much rather _**bury you**_ and have done with it!" she hissed. "Or leave you rotting to the birds and wild animals!"

He lifted his hand to strike, but she didn't flinch, only lifted her chin and glared harder. A sudden step at the door and creak of planking had him abruptly look up and behind her. She swung her head that way.

Joseph stared at them, bug-eyed, nodded nervously and shuffled away.

_"I hate you_," Christine seethed, turning her attention back to Henri. **"**_**I hope** **you**__** die!**_"

Before he could react, Christine wrenched her arm from his hold and turned on her heel, leaving the parlor. She would get nothing more from him. And she had said all that she came to say.

**x**

The months passed, as the seasons slipped one into another, though Christine was kept much too busy to give more than a fleeting notice to the outdoors. The changes indoors demanded her full attention.

Elizabeth's condition worsened as her pregnancy progressed. Christine feared for her but kept her qualms hidden. To keep the woman's spirits up, she spoke of bright and happy things, each morning relaying the scene from the window of the beautiful moors she no longer visited, also reading to her from the classics that made up her father's small library. His tastes had been diverse, from Shakespeare and Dante to the works of Dickens and Milton - and her favorite dark tales as a child, those by Hans Christian Andersen.

Many were dark, twisted, and she kept the English translation of the book _Eventyr_ absent from Elizabeth's reading repertoire, due to her delicate condition, deciding to share with her only the more heartening works of classic literature. Later in her bedroom, Christine would light her lantern and revisit the ghastly stories of ogres, imps and beasts. It was foolish, even childish; but engrossed in a world of such morbid fantasy, night after night, almost made the reality of her horrible life easier to bear.

Christine learned to keep house and help Berta with the cooking, asking Joseph to take over as many repairs as he could manage. With Henri in a drunken stupor half the time or off on his jaunts to God knew where, and Elizabeth confined to her bed, Christine had become mistress of The Heights and the two servants looked to her for every instruction.

She may have achieved the fleeting title of mistress, but she felt every bit a scullery maid.

Along with Berta, she pushed up the sleeves of her fine frocks and got down on her hands and knees to scrub floors. At first the older woman was horrified, but Christine was adamant, determined to make The Heights into the proud home it used to be and knowing every pair of available hands was necessary for that to happen.

She washed the pots and polished silver. She shoveled ash from the hearths and set new kindling to burn, tidied rooms, and threw out the refuse. She even fed the chickens and pigs and curried the horses when Joseph felt too poorly, which had been often of late due to "his old bones complaining" as he said every evening. Christine didn't doubt it. The man must be seventy if he was a day.

Her one reprieve, and afternoons she greatly enjoyed, was when Arabella would visit. Raoul also came when he could, though Christine felt a trifle uneasy to be around him as they sipped tea and ate crumpets in the parlor. From those things he said, he still considered her a friend. From those things he didn't say, he still hoped for more. And if she tried to ignore it, the hope was always there, shining in his blue eyes. At times, when the days became unbearable, Christine seriously thought of accepting his proposal - an escape to The Grange sounded like an oasis in the desert her life had become. But desert or not, her home was at The Heights, and her heart was still - would always be - with Erik.

**x**

Late one night in early summer, Christine woke from exhausted slumber by a screech that could wake the dead.

Throwing on her wrapper and lighting her lantern, she hurried to the door where she'd heard the panicked scream. She swung it open to see Elizabeth sitting in the middle of the bed, pale, the bedding wet and blood spotting the sheets. The young woman looked up at Christine like a fearful child begging her mother to tell her what to do next.

Christine pushed back a surge of fear. "Rest easy, Elizabeth. I'll fetch Berta to tend you."

Christine ran for the servant's quarters and woke her old nurse. "It's Elizabeth's time," she explained hurriedly, before doing the same to Joseph's door. "You must ride for the doctor."

The old man moved sluggishly, shuffling out of bed.

Henri was nowhere to be found.

By the time Christine dressed, Joseph had only just made it downstairs to the parlor. At this rate, Elizabeth would have the baby before he was out of the stable, and Christine heard thunder in the distance, heralding a storm. The arthritic old man didn't need to be out in such foul weather.

"I'll fetch the doctor," she said decisively.

"Mistress, no! Ye should not go out there! Not with a storm brewing."

"Berta, when has a storm ever stopped me from doing a blessed thing?"

"But your health – and 'tis been so long since you've ridden. "

"I'm in better health than anyone at The Heights, and I certainly remember how to sit a horse!"

She threw on her cloak and ran for the stables. There, she saddled the gray, relieved that the steps Erik had taught her came back without thought, though it had been years since she'd ridden. She was more anxious than she had let on.

Once seated, the saddle felt natural. She prodded her mare at a gallop out of the courtyard and down the road, her hood falling back and her hair tangling in the wild wind. Grateful that she'd _not_ forgotten how to ride, a sense of blood-tingling freedom she'd not felt since her days with Erik when they rode along the moors enlivened her. The night was dark as pitch with the oncoming storm, but the urgent need to find help smothered out old fears.

Confident in the saddle, the land familiar to her, she gave the horse its lead and arrived in Gimmerton before the storm could fully unleash. She found the doctor's house, but he wasn't there. She informed his housekeeper that Elizabeth's time had come then took her search into town, asking for the doctor from those who were about the streets. No one seemed to know where he was.

After what must have been a fruitless hour wasted, she returned home with the storm now lashing against her. Impervious to the lightning that shimmered inside dark, boiling clouds and ripped through them to strike the earth, she pushed her horse at a wild pace. The rain pummeled her unmercifully, the storm fierce.

By the time she reached The Heights, she was drenched despite her heavy cloak. Joseph doddered out as fast as he was able, to take her horse, and she hurried inside.

Berta drew her into a swift hug. "I feared the banshees stole you away!" She looked behind her, to the door.

"I couldn't find the doctor," Christine admitted somberly. "It's up to you."

Berta's eyes widened. "But, mistress, I've never delivered a babe! I've been nursemaid, even sat by your dear mother's side when the doctor brought you into the world, but I've never been midwife!"

"You have no choice," she said impatiently then more softly. "I'll help."

Berta looked panicked but nodded at Christine's instruction. Outwardly she maintained the authority to control the matter and issue orders to the servants; inwardly her insides shook as fiercely as Berta trembled. She tried to remember all she had read and heard, which amounted to very little.

"Boil water. Find clean towels. And we'll need a sharp blade, I think. I'll change out of these wet clothes and join you."

Berta nodded, her face pale, and rushed to the kitchens.

A scream shattered the stillness, followed by a pitiful cry for help. Christine looked grimly to the upper landing and the door that stood parted.

Taking in a deep breath, she took the stairs.

**x**

Four times in her young life Christine had been affected by the swift and merciless hand of Death.

She had been much too little to remember her mother well, but her loss had left an empty ache in her life growing up as a young girl.

Her father's death tore from her all the reassurance she had clung to as a child in knowing Papa would always be there to hold her close when she was sad or afraid.

And then there was Erik … he had come into her life, gradually taking the place of her father, until Papa's death, when she had then relied on Erik for everything: comfort, companionship, love. He often had understood her when she didn't understand herself. He had tolerated her tantrums, fought toe to toe with her, but even then she had been confident that their bond was strong enough to withstand all of it.

The third time Death struck it seized her life as well as her beloved Erik's. Not in body, but in spirit. No death could ever be as traumatic as the loss of her soul mate.

It was for that reason she could feel nothing now. As coldhearted as others might think her, after experiencing the worst Death could deliver she could no longer summon the emotion to feel, now that Death had swept into her life a fourth time, claiming its next victim.

With dry eyes, she stood solemn and quiet, the smell of freshly dug soil pungent in the air. Crying audibly, Berta held the sleeping infant, Henley, swaddled in a blanket. Henri stood, sober for once, and stared dismally at the fresh mound of soil. Joseph stood a short distance from them, next to the sexton, his battered hat held over his chest as the minister spoke from a prayer book. A bound cross of sticks that Joseph had fashioned was all that commemorated the short life of Elizabeth. A headstone to match Papa's would soon be carved to display the year she had come into the world and the year she had left it.

The doctor had finally arrived, toward the end of Elizabeth's travail, but he'd been too late. He managed to save the baby, but Elizabeth was too weak from blood loss and slipped quietly away, without ever having laid eyes on her newborn son.

That night a storm blew in on a fierce wind, strangely absent of thunder. Henri retreated to his room with a bottle of whiskey. Berta was soon in her element, caring for a babe again, and Christine enjoyed listening to her former nursemaid rock Henley by the fire and quietly hum a lullaby while outside the rain struck and the wild winds blew and blew and blew, keening, then whispering, a haunting melody.

_Listen Erik, do you hear? The night wind is playing to us … or is it you?_

"Christine, love, come away from that window."

But Christine remained, unaware of Berta, who only sighed and shook her head sadly while Christine listened to the storm play on.

**x**

Throughout the months that followed, Christine helped Berta care for the child. A gentle lad like his poor, dear mother, he rarely cried, and Berta doted on him, treating him as one of her own. For all the attention Henri paid, the child might as well be Berta's to raise.

Reunited with the saddle, Christine found peace in riding. While the weather remained warm and when time permitted, she sought brief moments of freedom, and returned to her beloved moors. There, she felt one with Erik. There, she found a sense of bittersweet calm that had been missing. Yet her visits with the rugged land had changed from when this had been their playground. She felt far older than her age, the lonely, haunted years having made her wiser, harder. The land, itself, had not changed, but she would never be the same again.

A blizzard brought the first of winter, and the months followed suit to its arrival, cold and harsh and dreary, until at last spring colored the land. Summer followed, bringing the first anniversary of Little Henley's birth, and then autumn blustered in, marking the time as four years since Erik's death.

It was on an unusually warm day in September, when Berta had gone to market and Joseph was visiting the minister, (Henri missing for two days on one of his licentious jaunts), that once again Christine's world dropped out from under her.

She had just laid Henley to sleep, weary from a night of walking the floor with him, trying to hush his cries from feverish teething and give Berta a rest. Deciding that a warm sponge bath would help ease her aching muscles, she filled a washtub with steaming water. Behind her, she heard the door open.

"Berta?" She set down the kettle. "Back so soon? Did none of the sellers have food worthy of selection?"

With a faint grin, she turned and gave a start of shock when Henri appeared at the kitchen door. His eyes lowered, taking in her shift. Angrily she crossed her arms over herself.

"As you see, I'm busy," she said through stiff lips. "Go away."

Instead he closed the door and approached her.

She backed up a few steps, trying not to let him see her fear. "I said go, Henri!"

"I think it's time we discuss the conditions of you livin' at The Heights," he announced, clearly having been drinking.

"Conditions? What conditions?" Indignant, she lifted her chin. "This is _my home_."

"You forget yourself. The house was my father's. Your father was only caretaker until I came of age. But I'm sure we can come to some sort of suitable … arrangement." His smile was lecherous. "I _may_ even take you as a wife."

Appalled at the idea, she scowled. "Go away, Henri. You disgust me!"

His oily smile disappeared. "You might change your tune once you find yourself without a bed to sleep in. The de Chagnys don't want you, to send you back here. You have nowhere else to go. Truth is, my generosity is all you have. Seems you owe me, and you could give some of your own ..."

Before she fully understood what he meant he lunged forward, more quickly than she would have anticipated for one in his condition.

Christine suddenly found herself flattened against the wall, his doughy body pressed hard against her, his hand taking liberties that filled her throat with bile. She struggled to get loose, but he was stronger.

"You gave it to your precious gypsy! You gave it to the Vicomte! Now I want my share!"

She tried to turn her face aside, but his mouth brutally descended, his lips grinding hard against her tightly drawn ones until she tasted blood. He ground his hips against her. Panicked, she struggled more violently, slashing her nails down his face. He cursed in pain, pulled back and slapped her hard across the face. Immediately he backhanded her, his ring slicing her cheek, then slapped her again. Momentarily dazed by the blows, she couldn't fight as his mouth invaded flesh and his brutal hands tore her shift. She beat at him with her fists. He pinned his arm against her throat and she couldn't breathe. Hauling up her shift, his hand groped between her thighs, forcing them to part...

"Not so high and mighty now, are you_, Little Lotte_?" He stared at what he'd exposed of her breasts straining at the torn neckline as she gasped to breathe, and his hand went to his trouser fastenings.

Terrified, feeling she might pass out and desperate to stop his vile intent, her hand flailed out beside her toward the table, seeking anything for a weapon. One hand connected with the handle of the kettle of hot water - and she used every ounce of strength left in her to bring it up and hit him in the back of the head.

She heard the crack of metal on flesh and bone followed by his harsh grunt as he slumped to the flagstones.

Gulping breath into her lungs, her mind and body paralyzed with shock, she stared at his sprawled body … and the blood oozing from the wound she'd put there.

He groaned. His hand moved against the floor.

His act of reviving startled her into panicked awareness. She snatched her cloak from its peg by the door and made a mad, awkward dash for the stable. The bile rushed to her throat and midway she fell to her knees to vomit, then struggled to her feet again.

Escape was all that drove her. She had to get away from the Heights! She could barely think, hardly knew what she was doing, took no time to saddle the horse, fearful Henri would stir and come after her. He was bigger, he was stronger. He could overpower her next time…

_God- there could be no next time!_

Outside the front gates in the distance, a lone horse and rider came up the path, the bay she recognized as belonging to one of Henri's friends. Wishing only to hide and anxious to be seen in such a state, Christine leaned over the mare's neck and kicked in her bare heels. Forcing her horse at a mad gallop, she took a shortcut along the grasses to safety.

xXx

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**A/N: Soon it will become clear why this couldn't go in the Wuthering Heights section, as someone advised. Those that aren't sure what to think about this odd little PotO phic yet…I ask that you give it a few more chapters before deciding. Thank you. :) And a huge thanks to all those out there giving it a shot...I know there is a plethora of PotO phics out there to read - many much better. And I appreciate you giving mine a chance.**


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews and encouragement! And now …**

* * *

**XIV**

.

Christine arrived at The Grange in less than half the time it usually took to get there. She practically fell from her horse to jump to the ground the instant she brought her mare to a stop. Fear still nipping at her heels, she ran up the stairs flanking the entrance and pounded on the door.

Grayson, the butler greeted her in clear shock. He took one look and stepped aside for her to enter, not bothering to announce her.

Arabella hurried into the foyer, her expression horrified at Christine's utter dishevelment: her face bruised and bloody, her lip split wide open, her hands drawing her cloak tight around her shaking body and her feet bare. Arabella hastened toward her, wrapping her arms around her in comfort, at the same time ordering one of the servants to fetch brandy, another to procure cloths and water, still another to find a change of clothes.

Violently trembling now that she'd reached safety, Christine held fast to her friend, burying her face against her neck. She remembered little else that followed. Her shock and pain blissfully took away all consciousness.

When she came to, she lay on the parlor sofa, Arabella tending the long scratch on Christine's cheek with a brandy-soaked cloth. Seeing her there, tears welled in Christine's eyes.

"What happened, dear friend?" Arabella whispered.

"Henri. He t-tried to …" she shook her head, unable to say the awful words.

The horror on Arabella's face made it clear she understood. She moved closer and stroked Christine's hair, shushing her and offering quiet words of consolation. "It's alright. Don't talk about it if it upsets you. Rest, Christine. You're safe now."

Safe … yes. Safe inside the parlor with Arabella. She was safe.

Christine tried in vain to relax. She couldn't stop shaking. Though it was foolish, she couldn't dismiss the certainty that Henri might barge in at any moment, demanding her return. Or worse…

The parlor doors flew open.

Christine gave a startled jump then a little cry of relief to see Raoul hurry toward her. His expression was frantic as he came to kneel beside the sofa. He took her outstretched hand in both of his and she wrapped her other hand around them.

"My God - Christine, what happened? I just arrived home from Gimmerton and Grayson told me you'd been hurt. Did you fall off your horse?"

She wanted to laugh at the idea but all she could do was cry and shake her head. "H-Henri … he… h-he…" The vile words again refused to come.

In great concern, he took in her face and dishevelment for the first time, noting her state of undress though her cloak hid the part of her shift that was torn. A rage such as Christine had never seen from Raoul blazed from his blue eyes and flushed his face red.

"Did Henri _hurt_ you?"

She couldn't speak only nod.

Raoul surged to his feet, his every action harsh and controlled, as he moved toward a desk and opened a drawer.

Arabella jumped to her feet. "Raoul, what are you going to do?"

"I'm going to The Heights and confront the beast." He pulled out a small wooden case. Christine was shocked to see him withdraw a pistol from it.

"N-no Raoul -"

"Think, Raoul, you can't go there -"

"N-not like this -"

Raoul looked up at them, his lips a tight white line. "It's time something was done. This sort of violent behavior has gone on far too long, and this is the worst." His features relaxed marginally as he looked at Christine's panic stricken face. "Do not fear. You're safe now."

Arabella moved forward. "Raoul, you cannot just ride to The Heights and shoot a man down in cold blood, no matter how deserving he is of it! There are still laws - you don't want to find yourself in prison!"

"I don't plan to shoot unless he attacks first. The gun is only a safeguard."

"What will you do?" Christine whispered, sniffling and wiping her eyes.

"Please, don't concern yourself." His eyes softened. "Don't cry, Lotte. It will be alright."

With a gentle touch against her head and a nod to Arabella, Raoul left them.

**x**

Time was so strange. Who could reason its nature? On occasion it would rush past, like a strong wind, to leave one breathless - with passion … in terror; while on other occurrences the equivalent would crawl, though the minutes, themselves, never altered in length…

A sluggish hour passed.

Then two.

Or perhaps it was a lifetime…

Christine, now dressed in borrowed clothing, sat sedately with Arabella in the parlor, sipping her fifth cup of tea and engaging in the pretense that all was well.

She had calmed considerably, her greater concern now for Raoul. She knew he could defend himself, but when Henri's violent moods overtook him, he could be unpredictable. She swallowed hard, the memory of his sudden attack and his repulsive hands on her body causing her to tremble again.

"The oddest thing happened yesterday," Arabella said, her voice well modulated and soft. "Raoul received a letter from Paris. From the Opera House to which his father consigned him as patron…"

Christine vaguely nodded, grateful to her friend for speaking of mundane matters, sure that she was only trying to get her mind off the fearful uncertainty of what was now happening and the lingering horror of what had occurred.

"It was the usual sort of letter, I'm told, bringing him up to date and giving a seasonal account of matters concerning the theater."

"That's nice." Christine tried to manage a polite smile but the split in her lip made it impossible. She blinked back tears.

"Yes, well, Raoul said for all that, the letter was a trifle confusing. He's new at this sort of thing, of course, apparently the managers are too. They wrote of an urgent need for new members of the chorus, due to some performers being discharged and a few accidents that occurred during practices. They assured him that matters are being expertly handled, likely to reassure him there would be no loss of finances, and told him that auditions are currently being held to replace the dancers. The letter went on to state that even those with little to no experience would be given an opportunity to audition so that the new opera would commence as scheduled."

Christine didn't know much about the workings of a theater and shook her head. "What's so confusing about that?"

"They asked Raoul if he knows of anyone who might wish to try out."

The door to the parlor swung open and the women hurriedly looked that way.

Raoul entered, his fair curls tousled, a grim look on his face.

"Henri is dead."

Arabella pressed her fingers to her mouth in shock. "Did you kill him?"

"He was dead when I got there."

Christine's heart raced. "But – he was alive when I left!"

"When I got there, the constable was in attendance, along with a few men from town and Joseph, who found the body." Something in his eyes made Christine clutch her borrowed skirt in dread. "Christine, one of those men saw you leave The Heights in great haste. They think you murdered him."

Christine blinked fast, trying to think. "I did hit him in the head, but he was groaning when I left. Raoul – he was alive! You must believe me!"

He looked confused. "The constable said he was bludgeoned to death. Forgive me for speaking so bluntly, but under the circumstances you should know. His skull was crushed. With an iron kettle. There were scratches on his face, and when questioned Joseph told the constable of a fight he overheard some months ago when you swore to kill him."

Christine's eyes widened. She felt all the blood rush from her face and gripped the armrest.

"I swear to you, by all that is holy, I did not kill him. I didn't hit him that hard!" Or did she? She had been frantic, desperate to get away, and had used all the force in her bruised body to bring the empty kettle down on his head.

But _crushed?_

"Dear God, Raoul, what are we going to do?" Arabella asked.

"You cannot stay here." Raoul directed the terse words to Christine.

Tears of despair rushed to her eyes at his shocking rejection; clearly he didn't believe her.

"No, please Lotte! You misunderstand." He hastened to sit beside her and took her hand in both of his. "This is the first place they'll look. All of Gimmerton knows that this was your home for two years and we are your friends."

"Raoul, what are you suggesting?" Arabella asked in shock.

"We have to get Christine out of the area quickly. Somewhere safe, where no one will think to search for her."

"You don't mean …" Christine shook her head a little in disbelief. "… _smuggle_ _me out of the country?_"

Raoul's eyes lit up, growing bluer. "That's an even better idea. I had thought perhaps, another town or district. London even. But after the Craven case, I'll take _no_ chances."

The cousins shared a grim look.

"The Craven case?" Christine asked in dread.

"Leonora Craven, the daughter of a baron, accused of murdering him," Arabella explained softly. "There wasn't enough evidence to go on, the whole thing was really quite shocking …"

"The barrister was a sly devil who convinced the courts that she was immoral and guilty," Raoul continued where Arabella left off. "She was sentenced to die."

Christine felt dizzy. A distant part of her thought it amusing in a macabre way that at one time, not so long ago, she had wanted nothing else – and now she might be executed.

"Later, they learned she was innocent," Arabella put in sadly. "And after all the horrid ways they dragged her name through the mud, ruining her reputation beyond repair, then to take her life - when she wasn't even guilty! A sad miscarriage of justice."

As if sensing Christine's train of thought, Raoul squeezed her hand hard, giving it a little shake. "We are _not_ going to let that happen to you. The question is where to send you."

A steady glow lit Arabella's dark eyes. "Oh, my word, it's perfect." She looked toward Christine. "I know exactly the place. We were just speaking of it. The Opera House!"

"In Paris?" Raoul asked.

Christine stared dumbly, recalling Arabella's news of current auditions. "But – I can barely dance well enough for anything of that nature! I've never even had lessons from a professional!"

"They did say little experience was necessary to audition. And you do have an innate talent not often seen. I've taught you the basic steps and a few dances. For an audition, you could do it, I think …"

Raoul looked at his cousin with incredulous disbelief and no small amount of wonder.

"This is a professional company, Arabella! How would Christine ever obtain a part in the chorus? Her dancing is exquisite, I agree, but certainly amateur by their standing. Even were she to manage passing an audition, she could not bluff her way through the entire dancing programme!"

Arabella smiled slyly. "Have you forgotten, dear cousin? _You_ are now the patron. You can recommend her, even accompany her there and order the managers to give her a position. If not in the dance, then in some other capacity."

Raoul smiled. "You know, that might work."

Christine listened to their conversation with stunned interest and growing alarm.

"I appreciate your help, of course – but I don't wish either of you to find trouble on my account. If they'll be looking for me, they could be watching you. There is something you don't know…." She swallowed hard. "Elizabeth told me that her father is a police constable and once worked for Scotland Yard. He was good friends with Henri, close enough that he would give him his only daughter in marriage. Might he not investigate or ask others to do so?"

Raoul nodded grimly. "You bring up a valid point. There is that slim possibility. But I'm certainly not going to abandon you and send you off to fend for yourself alone!"

"More than a slim possibility I would think. Wherever I go, I _should_ go alone."

"Perhaps Italy? An acquaintance of father's will be going there next week with his wife and children. And you did enjoy the Mediterranean."

"But Raoul," Arabella inserted. "Where will she stay until then if not here?"

"No, I don't think the Mediterranean is an option." Christine abhorred the idea of traveling with people she didn't even _know_. After what her vile cousin had done, she certainly could never entrust her protection to a stranger, even if he was a friend of the de Chagnys.

She withheld a shiver, the reality of Henri's death still hazy and unable to fully sink in.

Were they truly having a serious discussion about making her a fugitive of the law? She wished death on no man, yet felt nothing but relief that Henri would never again be a threat to her or anyone else…

Except that he was. Even in death, he caused her pain and sorrow.

They quietly argued several minutes longer. Raoul felt uneasy to let Christine go off alone to any country of which she barely knew the language. Christine was adamant that she at least had gained some experience with traveling and would know what to do on her own. Arabella championed Christine, reminding Raoul of her amazing mettle in the many difficulties she had been forced to face thus far, along with her reminder that his father had told them that many _did_ speak their language where it was at last decided Christine should go. Raoul felt somewhat mollified that his new status would create no undue suspicion once he did arrive where Christine would be hiding, and he could then check on her and provide anything she might need…

At last all were in agreement concerning the details.

Christine sat back, still stunned, as Raoul hurriedly left the parlor to arrange for her immediate transport and escape to the opera house in Paris.

xXx

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**A/N: Muahahaha …. *rubs hands together in mad glee***

**(I do so love a twist…don't you?)**


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: Oodles of kisses (chocolate of course) to my reviewers - you guys are wonderful! And thanks to the many who have favorited and alerted too! … **

**and now… **

* * *

**Part II**

**(Paris, France - 1868)**

**XV**

.

Christine grimly looked up through ivory columns that fronted the high walls of the impressive edifice of the Opera ... this fortress of music which housed her escape from all who knew of her existence.

How a matter of minutes could so twist and alter a person's fate!

Over two years ago she had come to this monolithic building, beautifully gowned and bejeweled, on the arm of a vicomte, treated with the deferential respect shown only to the nobility. Now she arrived, a wanted fugitive for murder, hoping to seek employment in the chorus as a dancer for which she had little practice and no experience. Forced to play out girlhood dreams that at one time she would have given anything to accomplish.

The irony did not escape her.

It had been long months since she practiced what Arabella taught. How would she ever convince these connoisseurs of the dance that she had anything worthy to offer their chorus? But try, she must. And if in all likelihood she failed, she would simply have to seek work elsewhere in Paris and find some other establishment, hopefully where they also spoke her language. The years had shaped and hardened her; somehow she would manage.

Grateful that the ugly bruises were covered, the one on her throat at last absent, and the split on her lip and cheek hardly noticeable unless one looked closely, she took the wide spread of stairs to a set of carved double doors.

A man in an striking scarlet and gold uniform barred her way, giving her simple woolen dress a derisive glance. Arabella had wanted to clothe her in something finer, but Christine thought a servant's dress would seem more in keeping with someone looking for work with a theater company. One look at the doorman's posh uniform, and she wondered if she should have listened to her friend and chosen the green brocade instead.

He spoke to her in French, his mustache twitching in disdain. She shook her head and lifted her hands at shoulder level to show she didn't understand. "Those seeking employment must use the back door," he said in English with a little superior sniff.

She gave a stiff nod at his deplorable treatment, lowered her head in unease, and took the stairs back down, to the street. This did not bode well. Her foot not even in the door and already she'd made a mistake in trying to enter! If she was superstitious, she might think this a bad omen … or perhaps the cold burst of wind that suddenly blew a chill down her spine.

The building was massive, covering one entire city block, but at last she found a door at the back near the stables. With no one there to challenge her, she walked through …

… and entered a whole other world, steeped in fascination and bizarre to the extreme.

The room with its lofty ceiling was dimly lit with candles, lanterns, and torches; thick with particles of dust that drifted through the air and turned golden when the light from the flames hit them. All about, people in strange costumes and men in work clothes rushed through practices and duties. Smatterings of French, Italian, English, and other languages she didn't recognize trickled around her in hurried conversations.

The area was large but inconceivably crowded, with plaster statues and mannequins- some of them headless!- varied urns and tables, mirrors with curious small lights on them, and rows of garish costumes hanging wherever a rack might fit – and so many props and other items Christine could not begin to recognize them all. If she was given a week to investigate, she would probably not see all of what was on display in this one room alone. And the Opera House was massive!

To her right, a musician practiced his violin while two servant women hung a tapestry of a medieval hunt behind him. Not watching where she was going, Christine barely managed not to get knocked over by a dancer rushing forward and carrying a woman who laid with her lower back on his shoulder, her arms and legs in graceful ballet position, her face lifted to the ceiling. An open loft-like area filled the second floor above in a compete square that rimmed the main area, offering no walls for privacy and bordered with simple rails of wood to prevent a fall, so that those above could look down at those on the lower level.

In the distance, a trio of girls in filmy tulle outfits and ballet slippers giggled and raced down a spiral staircase.

Deciding that to follow them would be to find the person she must approach, Christine hurried forward to trail behind, all the while taking in the incredible sights backstage. Inside an adjoining room she even spotted a workhorse tied to a huge, spoked wheel that lay flat with ropes tied around its rim and rotated as the horse slowly walked in a circle … Christine coming to the conclusion that it must be a hoist to move large pieces of stage scenery.

A warren of corridors made up of hanging curtains and tapestries or thin walls divided the area into a beehive of small alcoves and rooms, also leading to roomier areas where more items were packed solid, seemingly every inch of space taken with a mad jumble of equipment and yet more crates and props. So many props! People were everywhere - what must be hundreds - sitting, standing, hurrying to and fro, hanging furnishings, practicing dance, playing stringed instruments – a cacophony of notes, loud and soft, hurried and slow – each musician set off apart from the others and working on different music scores…

And through all of this workday madness, no one seemed to notice her. It was as if she walked among them, invisible. The experience came as both relieving and alarming.

It was the most peculiar and startling and incredible place she had ever seen or been in. She could easily get lost here, and Christine was hard put not to gawk and keep her attention fixed on the three ballet girls who hurried through the jumbled maze of art, dance, and music.

She followed the trio to one wing of the vast stage. There an older woman stood in a severe black dress that suggested the widows weeds of mourning, except for the brazen flash of gold embroidered lace and vivid red flowers that rimmed both sleeves and neckline. Her hair was pulled into a long tight braid behind her as she viciously tapped the black cane she held against the polished wood floor. Ballet dancers formed two lines on the stage and instantly came to a halt, waiting. As the three girls hurried to step in line with the other dancers, she turned and lifted her brow at their entrance.

"Ah, Celeste, Meg, Bernadette, how generous of you to find time from your busy schedule to join us." Her words were soft but biting, her blue eyes fierce. She harshly rapped her cane again. "_Vite, vite!_ Get in line!"

And then she saw Christine.

"Qui êtes-vous?"

Christine shrugged a little and shook her head.

"Who are you?" the woman snapped in English.

"Christine Daae," she all but whispered, realizing too late she'd forgotten to give her mother's surname as she had planned. The events had flustered her. She had not thought before speaking. But France was a fair piece from England. Surely no one in this theater would have heard of a murder on the remote moors of Haworth. Arabella had told her to act assured and that was half the battle. She squared her shoulders. "I have come to try out for a position in the chorus."

The woman's finely arched brows sailed upward. "Auditions do not begin until noon."

"Oh, well then …" She floundered. "I only just arrived. I – I didn't know. I'll return later." Though she had no idea where to go until that time and hoped no one would question if she found a corner to sit in the jumble backstage.

"Wait."

Christine turned at the woman's soft command. Again, she hesitantly approached.

Madame studied her, one eye narrowing in speculation. "What experience do you have with the theater, Christine Daae?"

It was the question she most feared.

"Not a great deal. Well, um, none actually. But I am willing to learn, and I pick up things very quickly. Please, won't you give me the chance? I -I need the work and I _have_ been trained in the ballet." A small fib. She neglected to mention her instructor was a Comte's daughter and not a professional dancer.

A few of the girls in line giggled, making Christine believe she had destroyed her only chance with her impulsive words. Their stern instructor didn't look at all impressed with her introduction.

"And what will you dance to?"

Christine regarded her in surprised confusion. She hadn't expected that the stern woman would allow her to try out before the appointed time, and she certainly hadn't anticipated an audience of tittering, professional dancers to stand by and watch her amateur performance.

"Well?" the woman prompted.

"The first act of _La Sylphide_, the part where she snatches the ring from James and flees." She named the opera she had practiced most, dancing the part of the sylph, a supernatural fairylike being loved and inadvertently destroyed by a mortal man when he covered her with a magical scarf, tricked into thinking it would forever bind her to him; but her wings fell off and she died. She could relate to the character, her own life mirroring the poor sylph's, her own wings forever clipped. Loving one man had nearly destroyed her as well.

"Do you wish to change into costume?"

Costume? Christine felt the sweat bead her brow and thought how strangely warm it was in this vast theater. She had no costume. Her mind went to the many she'd seen. Would they allow her to change into one of those? Dare she ask?

"N-no. I'll dance in this."

Madame looked at her strangely, from her woolen dress to her flat slippers, but directed her gaze beyond a row of unlit footlights and nodded. From beneath the stage, the sound of a baton struck wood and music in the orchestra pit filled the theater. Christine blinked in shock to so suddenly hear the aria for which she asked.

The instructor raised her brow when Christine made no effort to move.

In haste she assumed starting position, but too late with her introductory steps, her first attempts came awkward. She became more graceful as she concentrated solely on the music and tried to block out all else, but her thick skirts hampered movement. Coming out of a simple twirl, she stumbled, just managing to catch herself and prevent a fall.

"If the sylph danced like that, James would have caught her and the story would be over," one of the girls snidely said, among the scornful chuckles that came from the ballet dancers. The instructor did not smile. She did nothing but stare.

Christine's face heated with the fire of embarrassment.

"And do you sing as well as you dance?" the older woman asked pointedly.

Christine shook her head. "I don't sing."

"You _don't sing?_" the instructor scoffed in disbelief. "Foolish girl, you do realize that to join the chorus you must sing and dance for an audition? Surely you are not so daft as to come here without such knowledge." She paused to consider, a softness melting her ice blue eyes as she studied Christine. Her voice came more gentle. "Do you wish to try again later? Perhaps find a suitable costume as well?"

Christine lowered her eyes, seeing all hope for finding a place to hide within this theater disintegrate as quickly as her dubious dancing skills had done.

"No, I'm sorry." Her answer came quiet but deliberate. "I don't sing."

Madame shook her head. "I, too, am sorry, Christine Daae, but there is no place for you within this opera company."

The soft words were barely spoken, falling like harsh blows to Christine's heart - when a paper came out of nowhere and floated to the ground between them.

x

Christine stared at the note lying face down, only a few feet from where she stood.

Titters and movements from the dancers stopped as if they were no more than puppets, and their strings had been cut. An expectant silence thickened the air.

Christine darted a glance upward, to the network of narrow walkways in the darkness from where the note had drifted. No one stood there. She lowered her gaze to the lines of ballet dancers. Absolute shock was written on every face as some looked above also and others stared curiously at Christine, no longer with scorn but in astonishment.

The instructor didn't look as surprised as the others. She seemed frustrated as she gracefully bent to retrieve the note, flinging back her braid behind her as she straightened. She read the missive silently, her mouth tightening in disapproval, and looked up to the flies again. She gave the slightest shake of her head, as if making eye contact with someone. Christine again looked up but from her angle saw no one there.

"I can offer you a position as a cleaning woman. The pay is minimal but you will have lodgings here. Report to Claudette for your duties. That _is all_ I can offer you," she said emphatically, darting another glance above to the flies. Class is dismissed!"

Without waiting for Christine's reply to her offer, as though it were not even necessary and her fate had been determined, the woman turned away with a swirl of her black skirts. She stormed off the stage in a poised manner only a dancer could achieve, the letter still clutched in her hand.

Christine stared after her, stunned by the rapid course of events, curious that a ballet instructor had the authority to hire for cleaning but grateful for any job that would keep her well hidden within the winding, cluttered maze of this theater. The dancers gathered in groups, whispering among themselves and looking at Christine as if she were an oddity under glass in a museum. One of the trio of fair-haired dancers she earlier followed approached her. Her blue eyes seemed friendlier than anyone else's she had encountered, her manner inviting.

"Hello, I'm Meg Giry, the instructor's daughter. I'm curious. Have you been to this theater before? Do you know someone who works here?"

Christine carefully considered her answer. "Once, more than two years ago, I attended the opera here with friends."

"Hmm." Meg studied her pensively. "Well, I daresay, you've become something of a mystery. I suspect they'll be talking about today's audition for weeks to come!"

Christine shook her head at the strange greeting. "I don't understand."

"It's been months since anyone has heard from him, and that – what he just did – _never_ has happened. He's never come forward for anyone, except regarding the diva, La Carlotta, whose singing he abhors and with good reason. And Maman has never given another position to _any dancer _after rejecting them for the chorus. It simply isn't done. She wasn't at all happy about it either. It must be his doing, but then she always does what he tells her. Everyone does who values their life and their job here."

Christine tried to follow the confusing trail of information from the exuberant girl, who looked a few years younger than her twenty years. "The owner?"

"Oh, no – someone much more powerful. Everyone here calls him the Phantom of the Opera. He signs all of his notes O. G. - for Opera Ghost."

Christine regarded her skeptically, wondering if in being the newcomer she was also the intended victim of a prank. "A _ghost?_ You cannot be serious."

"Oh, he's no ghost! Not according to two ballet rats who once worked in the chorus. Both of them swore on their lives that he came to them in the corridor late one night – and … well …" Meg looked around to make sure no one overheard. "Things happened," she whispered.

Christine nodded, wondering what "things", but couldn't begin to follow this bizarre conversation.

"The first year that he made his presence known at the Opera, Juliet told everyone he approached her on the closing night of _Robert le Diable_," Meg went on in the same quiet tone reserved for shared confidences, "and Winnie who was always a scene stealer swore up and down that he seduced her in the same corridor the following spring. But Juliet was a drunk and Winnie a liar. None of the chorus believed them. Yet each of those girls was dismissed from the theater soon after their recounting and for no apparent reason." At Christine's blank look, Meg explained, "No one is dismissed for telling tales of late night trysts that happen within these walls, true or fabricated – or more than half the theater would be without work! And even though no one said they believed them, after having heard the sinfully wicked accounts of Winnie and Juliet I can tell you some of those same girls who called them liars have found any excuse to steal through the corridors late at night, even calling out to him, hoping they will become his next victim!"

"They _want_ him to accost them?" Christine's face grew hot as at last she had a better idea of what "things" had happened. She felt as if indeed she had entered a bizarre new world as she was given her first taste of scandalous theater gossip.

"Oh my, but yes. He never appeared again though – to any of them. If, in fact, he appeared at all. He remains hidden – where is anyone's guess. The managers ordered a search of the entire theater when he first made his presence known, but no one has been able to find him or his hiding place. Then, two years ago, they ordered another search- behind the walls when one man stumbled across a hidden entrance; only there were traps! Deadly traps. A few of the men got hurt. One of the stagehands almost lost his arm, and a male dancer was killed …"

Christine gave a little shudder at the horrific news. Traps? Behind the walls? What kind of madhouse had she entered!

"The only other person to have seen him and told about it is Joseph Buquet, one of the stagehands who works in the flies. He's a drunkard and a voyeur, so no one believes a word he says either. His accounts of the Phantom's appearance are simply bizarre – a hole for a nose, a skeletal face, and eyes that glow. Like a monster. Winnie and Juliet didn't describe him like that at all – they say he's attractive and very tall. Well built, with raven black hair. And he moves with quick grace, like a ghost in the night – appearing and disappearing without warning. That's one reason we call him the Phantom. He wears a long cloak and a black mask, like a bandit, hiding his identity, though Winnie said it's white and covers only half his face. I asked Maman – for of course she has seen him since she's his go-between with the managers – but she tells me I must not think or ask about him again."

Meg gave a displeased little roll of her eyes. "Some say he's a wanted criminal, hiding from the gendarmes, which explains the mask, and there was this … incident, with Buquet's brother, once a stagehand too. Though the man was a clumsy oaf and could have fallen and gotten the rope wrapped around his neck." She shrugged as Christine's eyes grew wider. "The managers first thought the Phantom was a hoax played on them by one of their grand nephews. That is, until he spoke from the shadows, in the flies, while their nephew was with them. He's _definitely_ no hoax." She emphatically and slowly shook her head. "He sends notes to the managers with demands for the operas, threatening them if they don't obey, and the managers who were here before the new ones always gave him what he asked."

Christine could understand the need to hide, a fugitive herself, but this "Phantom" sounded like a madman. She certainly would stay far away from all empty corridors late at night!

"Perhaps - what just happened - was a coincidence, the timing of all of this, and that note he sent was about something or someone else," Christine added hopefully.

Meg gave her an all-knowing look. "You'll soon learn, there is no such thing as coincidences in this theater."

"But –"

"Meg!" one of the girls called out. "Are you coming or not?"

"I have to go," Meg said with a grin. "We'll talk later. It was nice to meet you by the way."

"Wait!" Christine called before the bubbly dancer could flit off with her two friends, who had not stopped staring at Christine. "Do you know where I can find the woman Claudette?"

"At the moment, non. She will be easy enough to find though. She has red sausage curls, a black mole on her chin, and is built like a house. You cannot miss her." She turned away, then gracefully pivoted again. "Oh - and Christine, a word of warning, do try not to get on her bad side, _if_ she even has a good side." Meg shrugged and scampered off to join the other girls.

Christine stared after the retreating dancers then again lifted her gaze to the flies. She shivered as she stared into absolute darkness, no sign of movement or life apparent. Whoever this mysterious Phantom was he sounded more dangerous than anyone she had known or read about in truth or fiction – and, if Meg were to be believed, quite possibly was a true threat to her.

She wondered just how safe she was inside this bastion of insanity and if she'd made the right decision in coming here. Outside its doors, she was in danger of being caught by law officials … but inside, a different predator lurked within the intricate maze of alcoves and corridors. Within _the very walls!_ She might be safer at the dubious mercy of Scotland Yard. Either option - to stay or go - seemed dangerous…

She shook her head in resolve, determined not to let Meg scare her away. Surely, all of what the excitable dancer said couldn't be true and she embellished the tale for the sake of drama.

This was the theater, after all.

Christine went in search of the daunting Claudette, while trying to shake the feeling that someone watched her from the shadows.

xXx


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: Thanks so much, my phriends! For you- a virtual kiss- O. A sincerely wished hug - X - and an authentic chapter… ;-) (Note: All lyrics used belong to Charles Hart, Richard Stilgoe, and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Also, the word "diva" came into being in 1880-85, but since ALW used it for his 1870 version, so am I. Actually, last night while researching a reference book I have (called _English Through the Ages_)- I found that there are a lot of other theater words often used in PotO phanphics that weren't around until the 1880s and 90s, but then, that's what artistic license is for… ;-))… and now…**

* * *

**XVI**

.

Once she finally found and introduced herself to the rotund woman in charge of cleaning, Christine was given a uniform, a brush and a bucket, and in heavily accented English told to change, then to scrub the floors of the main foyer. Claudette's only other words to her were to be quick about it and report back when it was done.

So began Christine Daae's illustrious new career at the magnificent Opera House of Paris.

Shaking her head at the fallacy, she shoved all girlhood dreams far behind her and looked for a place to change. Her query of where to go was answered by a passing dancer in costume who pointed toward a sparse room without mirrors. To Christine's relief, it had solid walls and a door she could close - and was not made up of flimsy lengths of any material imaginable and suspended from taut ropes, like some of the other makeshift rooms she had glimpsed within the maze.

The bruises were now only a matter of ugly discoloration, no longer painful, except for one area on her shoulder blade that she could not reach or see. At The Heights, she had quickly learned to work with small aches so gave the niggling irritation little thought. She supposed she should be thankful that the slightly oversized chemise issued to her was not scratchy against her skin like the dress, though it's neckline rested a bit low for comfort. For modesty sake, she pulled up a slipping sleeve that barely settled below the curve of her shoulder. Nor was it as well constructed as her lace-trimmed shift of fine linen, which she also wore; but even that was showing signs of wear, the threads loose in places.

She dispensed with her boned corset, the tedious work expected of her impossible to manage if one could not breathe. A simple black woolen skirt, matching stockings, and a pair of ugly lace up boots completed her uniform. She pulled her hair back in a loose bun like the other cleaning women, or tried to, the thick mass of long springy curls having their own mind, even with the chenille net that should keep them in place. She was no fashion statement, not like her days at The Grange, but that was another world behind her. With a wry smile, Christine reasoned that should anyone who had known her come to the Opera House, she would not be recognized, so the dull uniform achieved her purpose well.

Rolling up her belongings in a bundle, she pondered what to do with them, then decided to leave them on one of the barrels against the wall. If someone took them, then good riddance! She wouldn't miss the dress and tight slippers that had belonged to one of Arabella's servants, and she certainly could bid farewell to the constricting corset, perhaps inspired from a tool used in a medieval torture chamber. That standard of cruel fashion Christine wouldn't miss in the slightest! There was only one item that she cared to keep from what she'd brought with her, and it was safely tucked deep in the slit pocket of her skirt. She was just thankful she had thought to slip the scrap of cloth in her inside cloak pocket before pouring water for her bath on that horrid day, and had not left it behind.

As the terrible memory of what had then occurred threatened to follow, she sucked in a sharp breath and hurried from the room to lose herself in the chaos and search for water.

The first person she asked, a man wearing everyday clothes and a clown's face paint, gave her long-winded directions, and she eventually found herself in an empty stable like room devoid of hay. It was filled with barrels and wooden crates and had a deep shallow basin in the middle, the length and size of a trough, filled to the brim with water. She wondered if she had taken a wrong turn, if this wasn't meant for the horses and whatever other animals the Opera House owned, and whether there might also be a well nearby. But with no one to ask, and seeing the water was clear, she decided it was sufficient for cleaning and skimmed her pail along the surface to fill it.

She returned to the crowded corridor, again asking directions, to the main foyer this time, from a petite woman carrying bundles of taffeta dresses over one arm who rustled as she walked. After following her brief answer in broken English, Christine was soon lost. In the jumbled maze, she felt completely discombobulated, with no idea of which way was front or back, north or south. She soon discovered that many of the performers, though not all of them, spoke English, some only smatterings while others were more fluent, and she finally found her ultimate destination.

Gaping at the huge expanse of parquet floor and the presence of only two other women cleaning in the distance, she shook her head.

"It's what you wanted, Christine Daae, to hide within this opera house. So you might as well reconcile yourself to your fate."

With a little sigh, she knelt down and set to scrubbing the patterned marble.

The work was taxing, but her body was accustomed to labor from nearly two years of helping Berta. Hardened calluses already covered her hands and the muscles in her arms had been toned by scrubbing floors such as these - though made of wood and on a much smaller scale than those of this massive theater.

The other women paid her little heed, which suited her well. She kept to herself, speaking only when addressed, not wanting to draw unwanted attention.

Finishing her task hours later, Christine again finally found and reported to Claudette, and was immediately assigned another chore. The only rest she had throughout the day were her few trips to the privy and eating the meal supplied to the workers, of dark bread, cheese, and fruit, some of it spoiled. There was no meat but there was plenty of wine.

That night, in a state of utter exhaustion she fell onto the small, hard cot given her in the workers' dormitory, so weary, she didn't bother to undress. Her first day in her new occupation was more fatiguing than the days' worth of travel in the private coach that had brought her to France! If this was an example of what her future would be, she wasn't sure she could survive it.

x

On her second day, Christine was soundly shaken awake by one of the women who shared her dorm.

"Levez-vous! Levez-vous!"

"I don't understand," Christine said tiredly.

"Levez-vous!"

The woman clearly spoke no English, however her hand signals made her intention clear. It was time to get up.

Christine's muscles in her arms and shoulders ached, but she sluggishly rose to join the others. After a breakfast of warm porridge, she felt better and less discouraged and was ordered to help polish the metal rims of the countless seats in the vast auditorium.

Meanwhile, on stage, practice for the newest opera commenced.

Dressed as medieval warriors in bronze armor, the chorus sang the final aria of Act Two. Christine listened with interest. The singing was professionally accomplished, if not emotionally engaging, but the movements of their dance flowed well. A redheaded woman with a tall golden hat strutted to the center of the stage. Christine noticed two of the other cleaning women rapidly pull from the pockets of their skirts tufts of what looked like wool or cotton which they stuffed into their ears. Curious, Christine stopped polishing to focus her full attention on what would happen next.

The opening chords began.

Christine felt as if she'd been slapped in the face.

The woman began to sing, perilously reaching for the notes instead of letting them come naturally. Christine winced at her screeches and warbles, but that was not what gave her the greatest distress, so much so, that her stomach turned and she felt she might vomit. She clutched her throat, moisture welling in her eyes. Even the dancers on stage had trouble concealing their winces of agony as the soloist continued to murder the aria.

As Christine dully watched, a tall statue at the back of the set seemed to waver. As if in slow motion it suddenly dipped forward, picking up speed with its momentum and came crashing down near the woman's head. The prop came only feet away from pummeling her into the stage floor!

An eruption of deep, booming laughter filled the entire theater, seeming to come from all areas at once. Christine spun in a rapid circle, scanning the balconies and trying to locate the bearer of mischief.

_"You will rue the day you do not follow my commands to the letter!"_ The threatening voice from nowhere announced. _"That was a warning - the excuse for a diva must go!"_

At the sound of the deep, male baritone, deeper than any voice she had ever heard, a shiver went through Christine at the same time a strange warmth filled her. Frowning, she rubbed her arms though she felt no chill.

Pandemonium broke out across the stage.

"It's him!" Meg screeched, pointing upward from within the line of dancers. "The Phantom of the Opera!"

Everyone quickly looked up, some crowding in, in an attempt to see better.

Christine hurried down a side aisle and close to the front, craning her head back to see into the dark flies, hoping to catch a glimpse of the notorious male ghost who haunted the theater. She frowned when her efforts went unrewarded. From the disappointed faces and murmurs of the women's chorus, she was not the only one to fail.

"Did you really see him, Meg?" one of the dancers asked.

"Only from the back - and the twirl of his cloak as he sped away," she said unhappily.

The managers tried to pacify the bearer of the ridiculously tall golden hat, assuring her that they wished for her to remain their star. But the diva screeched at them about all the so-called accidents she'd had to endure for three long years and tore off her hat throwing it down for emphasis, her red-orange curls sticking out all over her head like a bird's nest.

"I hate my hat! I hate thees opera! And I hate you! Bring me my doggy and my boxy," she commanded of one of her servants nearby. "I will not come back until you rid the theater of thees Phantom vermin for good! Bye-bye. I am leaving now," she declared and stormed off the stage.

"Another of the diva's tantrums," Christine heard one of the doormen nearby say to another. "Before tonight's performance she'll be back. He's tried to get rid of her before, but she's as stubborn as they come."

"Fifteen francs says you're wrong. She was insulted this time – that was the statue made for her character in the production – and it came close to squashing her like a bug."

"That's a wager I'll take. His pranks always come close but never harm anything other than her female vanity. Mark my words, she isn't going to let this stop her from basking in the limelight, even if she is ages past her prime and gets message after message that no one wants to hear her sing anymore as the lead. He may be a madman, but he's right about that."

The second worker nodded in agreement, and both shook hands in their bet.

Christine studied the broken statue on the stage then the flies again, before slowly resuming her task.

All day long the song haunted her.

**xXx**

Night had already fallen by the time Claudette ordered Christine to scrub the stage.

Fragments of the statue had shattered and though an immediate cleanup had been required, most of it by stagehands who carried away the heavy chunks of plaster, every bit had to be removed from every crevice, the wood scrubbed and polished smooth for the ballet dancers' soft soles.

And it had to be done before tomorrow morning's practice.

Christine didn't mind being singled out, though she wondered if Claudette held some personal grudge against her to make her do the job herself. But it felt almost comforting to be alone in the vast, noiseless theater; at the same time it unsettled her with the memory of _this_ morning's practice. In her mind, she could still hear that magnetizing, disturbing voice…

The stage was all that remained lit, several close lamp stands left burning so she could see to work. The upholstered crimson seats in the auditorium were cloaked in varied layers of darkness, as were the many nude golden statues on the walls, between the alcoves all around, and high near the ceiling above her. A musical den of flagrancy and opulence, she could well imagine what the dour old minister and sexton from The Heights would have to say about this opera house! The thought almost made her chuckle, though her heart felt far from merry.

The stillness was haunting, but at the same time it soothed her nerves after living with the constant mayhem of theater life. Many activities went on at once – practices, different chords and compositions of music, frequent hammering, myriad conversations and shouting, laughter, cursing – so much, and all of it building into a great cacophony of confusion.

As she worked in the peaceful quietude, Christine again recalled the interrupted practice and the diva who had stood where she now scrubbed. She even felt a smidgen of gratitude toward the elusive Phantom for ending the song so swiftly, though she certainly did not agree with his methods. Yet she should not have been so startled to hear that tune.

Her father had been involved with opera companies before she was born and the arias he'd taught her had been from them. But that moment, today, had taken her back to one night on The Summit, held in the warmth of her Angel's arms…

Her Angel who was now a true angel.

She sighed, bringing her scrubbing to a gradual stop, and rested her shoulders while looking around the darkened theater. Thinking of him while in this place that produced the music they both adored, she could almost imagine him here with her in spirit. At the opera over two years ago, sitting in Box Five, she had undergone the same experience.

She looked up at the quiet alcove, now concealed in deep shadow.

The strangest sensation tingled through her, to sing the aria the way it was meant to sound. She had not sung in almost four years, had not wished to, unable to summon the desire to lift her voice again, the wings of her music clipped … but suddenly, and for no apparent reason she could name – she wanted to sing.

It was shocking really. Baffling to the mind … which she tried to put back to her task, dipping the brush in the sudsy water and scrubbing harder, wishing to scour the unexplainable desire away.

The urge persisted, her pulse in her throat beating faster the longer she tried to curtail the need.

Perhaps, she wished to sing because for the first time in her life she was living her old aspiration of being center stage in an opera house, even if only in a maid's garb in the dead of night. Perhaps it was that she _did_ sit alone in an empty theater with no one to overhear. She could not describe the sudden compulsion to free her music that had been trapped inside, but it was powerful and growing more intense with each moment that she delayed.

She had often talked with Erik about singing for him, starring in his operas, sharing in a life of music together. When he died, that part of her died too. The dream of triumphant glory they once shared had blown apart with the malevolent precision of a fiend's bullet. Now, here, with no one watching – she wanted to resurrect the dream for one brief moment and sing again…

…For Erik.

And she could no longer curb the desire.

Closing her eyes, she straightened her spine and parted her lips, letting the first notes touch the air in tentative exploration:

.

_Think of me, think of me fondly, _

_when we've said goodbye,_

_Remember me, once in awhile _

_please promise me you'll try …_

.

Her voice was uncertain, rusty with disuse, and low in pitch. But as she sang the rest of the verse then went into the next, the words became her own; she had no need to feign emotion. Her song was an unwritten letter to Erik from her heart, of all they could have had together, all they could have been to one another, all he still was to her…

_.  
_

_Think of me, think of me waking, _

_silent and resigned …_

_Imagine me, trying too hard _

_to put you from my mind …_

.

She rose slowly to stand, the tears falling unheeded down her cheeks. Softly she lifted her hands to her sides in a beseeching manner, lifting her eyes to the domed ceiling with its massive chandelier, hoping, praying he could hear her wherever he was. And during that one exciting, disturbing moment as she allowed the expression of their music to revisit her heart - she felt her wings unfurl, as if a small part of her soul had been returned to her.

_.  
_

_Recall those days, look back on all those times, _

_think of the things we'll never do …_

_There will never be a day when I won't think of you!_

.

Halfway into the crescendo, her voice broke. She ended the song there, unable to go on. The glorious release of finally giving reign to the music so long buried deep inside made her spirit soar. But at the same time she felt the agony of loss cut like a blade, sharp and deep and merciless.

"Oh, Erik," her lips sadly formed his name in veneration but she gave the words no sound.

A movement from above shocked her into turning her head slightly to the left. Had she dreamed it?

She looked up at Box Five where she had discerned the small disturbance. The private box was closest to the stage, the darkness not so absolute that she could not detect activity.

It was not her imagination.

The crimson drape stirred, fluttering softly to and fro, as if a hand had just let the velvet curtain drop back into place.

Her heart pounded against her breast, much as it had done over two years ago.

"Hello ...? Is anyone up there?"

Silence met her nervous query.

.

**xXx**


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: Thank you! And now… a moment you've all been waiting for…**

* * *

**XVII**

.

In a dark, shadowed part of the theater rarely visited and used only for storage, the formidable creature known by all as the Phantom of the Opera swept through the door, like a wraith ruling the watch of the night.

The edges of his cloak fluttered about his tall, lean form as he walked, and Madame Giry jumped with a little start at the unexpected sight of him, putting a hand to her black-clad bosom in a futile attempt to calm her heart.

He moved so silently she had not heard his footsteps in the corridor. He well deserved the name of Ghost!

She did not know his true name, no one did. She knew nothing about him or where he hailed from. It was thought he garroted Buquet's brother, though some called it an accident, but many were the "accidents" of the men who searched for him and found his traps; not all leading to death, thank God for that. Only one of those unfortunates had met their maker, though many had come close. As she'd done numerous times, she questioned her disturbing lack of principles that greed should have so influenced her decision three years ago, when the Phantom first made his presence known to the theater.

He had entered her office late one night when worry prevented sleep, shocking her with his sudden appearance then too. She had been doubly astounded to learn he'd been watching her and knew of her troubles. Monsieur Lefevre had been having a difficult time with his partner, who later quit, forcing Lefevre to assume sole management. At that time, the theater had been undergoing problems, financial and otherwise, and she worried about her future and Meg's should they be forced to close. The Phantom's proposition to act as his aide for a fourth of what he demanded from the managers per month provided too great a temptation, since her salary had been cut.

She soon witnessed his genius in the arts and learned to look the other way when she opposed his extreme and shocking methods for obedience. She assumed he must have been a great musician once, an eccentric composer, who found himself on the wrong side of the law and was forced into hiding. No matter. He had made a vast difference that could not be ignored. The managers took full credit for the turnaround, to no surprise, but it was the Phantom's commands that vastly improved things. Over the years, in helping him, she grew not to fear him. But she did not trust him. Moreover, his standard conduct of lurking in the shadows, often eavesdropping, and moving so wretchedly silent disturbed her, and as he came to a stop across from where she stood, towering head and shoulders above her, she addressed the issue.

"Monsieur, it would help if you would announce your presence and not tread about on cat's feet."

The likeness fit. Her superior had the lean, quiet grace of a nocturnal panther on the prowl and the appearance of one. Hair black as night. Eyes that burned. His every movement deliberate and lithe. A man steeped in mystery and deep shadows …

"Then I would not be the Phantom, would I?"

She drew her brows together in displeasure at his cavalier response.

Or perhaps the devil…

The devil's thoughtless manner. An angel's superlative voice.

Reminded of her task, she began, "About the new girl, Christine Daae …"

"Yes?" he snapped.

"She cannot sing. Why did you drop that note ordering me to keep her here?"

"I sense that she has hidden qualities I wish to explore."

She frowned at that. "She cannot dance either."

He chose to ignore her hidden reference, his mouth quirking in cynical amusement at the dismal memory of the dark-haired beauty attempting to catch up with the orchestra for her audition, and stumbling in her weak finish.

"I do not require a dancer."

"And I cannot hire a young hopeful with little talent for the needs of a professional chorus. I gave her the position of a cleaning woman instead."

"So I heard," he said dryly. "I have no objection."

She looked up at him in puzzled suspicion. "Just what plans _do_ you have for the girl, monsieur?"

"My plans for Mademoiselle Daae are not your concern. But when the time is appropriate, I will need your help."

She gave a resigned nod and he brought a folded parchment with a red wax skull from beneath his cloak, offering it to her. She took it.

"That is for La Carlotta. I have heard that her absence from the Opera lasted no longer than the time it took to indulge her vanity of buying another expensive trinket to wrap around her wretched neck." He scoffed in disdain. "Would that they would choke her and spare us the trial of enduring another one of her performances. Tomorrow I will have another note for the managers. I will deliver it in the usual manner. Expect it five minutes after the morning practice starts."

"After?" She regarded him in surprise. "Not before?"

"After." The new managers were apt to be more alert to hear and obey his wishes if their pathetic practice was again interrupted. Idiots, both of them. Yet for some, no amount of practice made a difference. He scowled, thinking of the current diva, who had long outlived her usefulness on stage. "Be there to receive it."

She gave a short nod.

With no word in parting the Phantom turned from her and strode from the room into the thickest of shadows leading to his home, still intensely shaken from his encounter of less than an hour ago.

Christine Daae could not sing?

He had just heard her!

And she possessed the pure tones and clarity befitting of an angel. Like divinity granting a petition, her emotive voice had quietly reached deep into the black core of his twisted soul, disturbing what dark torments he kept imprisoned there. The incident greatly unsettled him, then and now, and rapidly he brought his thoughts to that morning.

For all her talent, her subjugated manner and lack of spirit perplexed him. Her meek replies to Madame's questions were in direct opposition to the audacious courage she had shown to undertake the impromptu audition, without requesting a requisite warm-up and with so many watching. A foolish endeavor by any standard. One that proved she was nothing more than an amateur in the dance, and a very green one at that ...

But _why_ _lie_ about possessing such a voice?

Deep in thought, he wended his way through his hidden corridors beyond the walls and remembered her strange behavior that evening. Even with no one present in the theater, to her knowledge, she had appeared hesitant to sing once she did begin. It did not take an accomplished maestro to realize her voice was sadly out of form but held a rare quality separate from any other he'd heard inside this theater or out of it. And then, the unthinkable happened, and the spirit he had thought absent surged to being in her song as before his eyes she had burst into life …

… almost immediately to wilt again.

He frowned at the memory as he approached the staircase leading far down to his dwelling below. She had appeared to be singing those lyrics as if they were her own to bear, the suffering in her voice palpable. His lips twisted in a scowl at the thought.

No matter her desolate behavior, the Phantom had made his decision.

And he would not be refused.

.**  
**

**xXx**

.

Christine gave the huge rug that hung over the rope another wallop with the wire rug beater and coughed at the thick cloud of dust she raised.

"Christine - there you are!"

She turned to look. Meg hurried toward her, every nuance of her expression glowing with excitement.

"Did you hear what happened at this morning's practice?"

"I've been busy all day beating rugs," she said with a grimace of dissatisfaction. She had not yet mastered the art of finding Claudette's good side, and three hours of sleep after having violently scrubbed the stage into the earliest hours of morning did not benefit Christine. After the incident in the theater, she decided it must have been a trick of the dim lighting when no one came forward at her query after the curtain moved. Nonetheless, she had hastened through her task then practically ran through the empty corridors to the safety of her dormitory.

Meg gave the large square of dirty tapestry a disinterested glance and grabbed her arm.

"You must hear this. The whole theater is abuzz. Come along. It's too dusty to talk here."

"I don't want to get in trouble for leaving my task." The work may be dirty and thankless, but the need to hide was vital and this was the only post she could obtain in the theater.

"You are allowed breaks. Did Claudette not tell you? And really, this won't wait!"

Not taking no for an answer, she pulled Christine with rug beater in hand back inside the opera house and down several corridors, at last through a set of painted double doors that led into a dressing room.

Christine studied the beautiful rose-decorated area. The room was one of ostentatious luxury, elaborately decorated in dusky pink. A huge gilt-framed mirror carved with cherubs and roses stood mounted against one wall, framing her bedraggled image, the first she had seen of herself since she arrived. With a wry grimace, she impatiently worked to tuck a long curl back into the inadequate net.

She coughed, the dust still tickling her throat. Meg grabbed a bottle of wine nearby, pouring some into a glass.

Christine watched with little interest, shocked when she then offered the glass to her.

"It's alright," Meg said. Everyone shares and drinks off everyone else. Besides, La Carlotta won't be back until tomorrow morning. And you sound as if you could use it."

An understatement, certainly. Grateful for the refreshment, Christine nodded her thanks and took the glass, sipping the rich dark wine that still had a chill to it. The taste of the burgundy was sweet, coating her throat and soothing the itchy-dryness caused from hours of raised dust.

So, this was the diva's dressing room … Christine was not surprised, since from the little she'd seen of her outfits when not in costume the lead favored pink. At least the decor wasn't a brassy red-orange, like her hair.

"He sent another note this morning - not long after practice started," Meg blurted, unable to contain her news any longer, "though with the way Maman kept glancing up at the flies before practice, I'm sure he must have been there the whole time. This makes three times in as many days – first, at your audition, then the next day with the statue he toppled. And now this. He's never made his appearances so frequently."

Christine did not need to ask who. Even had she not known, it was evident by the sparkle in Meg's eager blue eyes. She wondered, not for the first time, if like the other dancers Meg also wandered the corridors late at night.

"He wrote that he was planning a new opera – _his_ opera – and that he had another singer lined up for the lead! Oh, La Carlotta was furious. She went off into an Italian rant, speaking so fast, even her aide couldn't understand her. I wouldn't have been surprised to see smoke come out her nostrils and flames shoot from her mouth - the old dragon." Meg giggled. "He didn't say _who_ would be singing, but he wrote that when the time was appropriate, he would reveal his new star, that she had been blessed with an angel's voice."

"An angel's voice?" From the little Christine had heard, she couldn't imagine the chosen would be anyone in this theater.

"Yes. There were the usual threats if the managers chose not to comply – nothing detailed, just that they would dearly regret it. Each of the girls in the chorus is wondering if it could be them he's chosen to replace La Carlotta, but no one there has a voice like he described, so I doubt it. The way he wrote of her singing attributes, she sounds like a heavenly being and not mortal at all!"

Intrigued, Christine also wondered. Wryly she lifted her brow and took another sip of wine. "Perhaps this unknown star has her Angel of Music to guide her, though the Phantom you speak of sounds more like a devil!"

"Angel of Music?" Meg looked at her queerly and Christine explained.

"When I was little, my papa told me a tale about a child named Little Lotte who wished for the Angel of Music to come down from heaven and guide her, so that she would become a famous singer." Christine shrugged and took another drink. "I once believed in such nonsense, but it was only a fairy tale."

"Do you wish you could sing?" Meg tilted her head curiously.

The question made Christine uncomfortable, and with a little noncommittal shrug, she posed a question of her own. "About this Phantom person, why do the managers not simply contact the local constable to be rid of him?"

"Oh, but they did! Lefevre - one of the older managers - sent for the gendarmes, but none of them could find him and the inspector said they had better things to do with their time than to hunt for a ghost. Since Lefevre and his partner were new then, I think the inspector thought it all a stunt for publicity." Meg toyed with the bottle of wine, running her fingertip along the label as if in curiosity, then set it down. "When news of his exploits leaked out, even with the accidents and other disturbances, ticket sales improved. It seems the audiences have also been hopeful to catch a glimpse of the Ghost, though I think it's more than that."

"More?" Christine finished the rest of her glass. "Aren't you going to have some?"

"Non. I drink wine only with my supper, I'll wait." Meg poured more into her glass.

"To answer your question – and let me go back a bit first - at the beginning the managers - all of them - two have come and gone you understand - well, they all balked at his demands. Accidents happened as he warned. So they began to follow his orders, which always turned out for the best. Making the opera better, bringing in higher revenue. They didn't want to pay him at first either – 20, 000 francs a month is what he asked!" At Christine's apologetic shrug, Meg added, "trust me, it's a lot. Sometimes they follow his demands, sometimes they don't. The new ones have chosen not too. Honestly, he has proven his genius in running the Opera. I'm not sure why any manager would refuse him – especially with his latest most pressing demand to rid the theater of La Carlotta!" She giggled again.

Christine nodded in return and drank half her glass. The room felt warm and she realized just how tired she was. It had been another exhausting day. Likely Claudette would have yet another task for Christine to accomplish before she could fall into her cot.

"Would it be alright if I sit down for a bit do you think?" she asked Meg, even as she laid the rug beater down on a table and sank to the silk-covered chaise. It softly cushioned her hips. She hadn't felt anything this nice since leaving The Grange.

"Oh, stay as long as you like. No one will be back in here until tomorrow. I should go though. I have things to do that Maman told me to tend to…." Meg hesitated when Christine brought her legs up and leaned her head back against the cushion, her arm resting with the wine glass upright beside her. Her other arm she draped over her closed eyelids.

"Will you be alright here alone?"

"Mmm? Oh. Yes. I just need a bit of a rest. Five minutes at most."

"I'll lock the door behind me then, so no one disturbs you. There's a skeleton key on the dressing table when you wish to leave."

"Mmm …"

Meg closed the door…

…just as the glass fell from Christine's limp hand.

x

She had dropped her wine.

The foggy realization came to her from a great distance. Her eyelids felt weighted down, her body not her own. Meg had left. She had to clean the spill before it badly stained the rug. Christine groaned softly, moving her arm from her eyes and forcing heavy eyelids to open.

The room was darkened, the candles extinguished.

She drew her brows together. How had the flames gone out? The candles were not burned down. They still stood tall in their holders. What breeze would come inside a locked room? She realized then that she _could _see the candles, when she should not be able to…where was the dim light coming from?

Confusion turned to bewilderment as Christine noticed what appeared to be an iridescent mist billow throughout the room.

Smoke…?

Fascinated, she stared at the delicate bluish-white wisps that gently floated around her. Even the thought of a possible fire could not compel her limbs to move at their normal speed, and sluggishly she rose to sit. She smelled nothing burning but her heart gave a mad lurch when she noticed the mirror …

... that now glowed with muted light.

And a cloaked, hooded figure stood within the glass.

Christine blinked … she must be dreaming. She unsteadily glanced toward the double doors behind her but no one stood there. The reflection came from _inside_ the mirror!

"I am your Angel of Music …"

Her pulse quickened as the most beautiful and unearthly voice caressed her ears, soft and riveting…

Angel of Music.

She _WAS_ dreaming!

Her mind could not seem to think logically and catch up with any other part of her to move, either to hasten from the room in crazed flight. Or step toward the mirror in meek submission….

The silver glass impossibly evaporated as she stared. The dark robed figure held out his arm, unfurling a black-gloved hand in her direction. A hood shielded his eyes to the tip of his nose, and beneath she glimpsed a hint of a strong, lean jaw and arresting mouth as he lifted his lowered head slightly higher. The breadth of his shoulders was great, for it must be a man to be so tall and imposing. He seemed to take up the entire mirror! And the voice … had been a man's voice …

… or an angel's.

Dear God, nothing made sense. She could not think. Could not reason. She could only feel … and so strangely …

"Come to me, Angel of Music …"

Transfixed by his magnetizing presence, Christine slowly rose from the chaise, certain she lived within a dream so nothing could harm her. This had to be a dream; dreams made no sense. Soon she would awaken, and the enchanted room would be like it was before.

Her dazed eyes never left his darkly majestic form, her mouth softly parting in awe. Moving forward, her limbs felt as though she walked through water though the mist that swirled around her was vaporous.

At last she came to within a short distance of where he loomed and took the shallow steps upward. Her breathing unsteady, she slowly placed her trembling hand into his large open palm. His fingers and thumb curled around hers, closing her hand entirely within his grasp, and a little shock of electricity tingled through her blood even with the leather glove he wore. He stood immobile as he drew her closer through the mirror that was no longer there, closer still, until scant space separated them and she could feel the heat of his body envelop hers ...

Surely angels were cool to the touch. They should not bear such intense warmth to their beings that would make her feel so strangely dizzy.

Barely able to take in a breath, she looked up from the wall of his chest …

…into eyes that burned golden within the sockets of a black mask.

Christine's lashes fluttered closed as she slumped in a dead faint in his arms.

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: I had to do my own mirror scene based on ALW's- I just loved it in the movie (and you had a hint it was coming in the prologue of this story)… ;-)  
**


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: Thank you! :) Um, I hope you guys will **_**still**_** be talking to me at the end of reading this one … (gulps, backs away)… and now…**

* * *

**XVIII**

.

Her head throbbed dully. Not a severe ache … more a sense of not being connected to the earth. Her body felt listless, her limbs weak and heavy … and a strange chill in the air made her shiver.

With difficulty, Christine opened drowsy-lidded eyes and stared at a wall of brown rock.

Rock?

She tried to think, willed her mind to remember…

She had lain upon the chaise longue after talking with Meg. They – no – _she_ had drunk wine. She could still taste its sweetness on her tongue…

_There was a mist …_

_A mirror …_

_A __**man**__!_

Her eyes flew open the rest of the way.

_He had come for her…_

_Beckoned to her..._

_She had gone to him!_

_He had called himself …_

… _her __**Angel of Music**__?_

Quickly she sat up.

Impossible!

Still woozy, she gripped the pillow her head had rested on, seeing that she was on a massive bed. No common bed this, the frame heavy, the headboard elaborately scrolled, the mattress spongy – not filled with hay or lumpy wool or even malodorous chicken feathers but surely packed tight with the softest goose down – and the furnishings were a pale shade of peacock blue embroidered with iridescent gold. Nothing finer had she seen anywhere, certainly not at The Grange or in her travels!

But no angel had brought her to heaven. Not the heaven she had been led to believe existed. There was no sky. No music. No light. Just rock and cold…

… and profound darkness.

She shivered and looked at her surroundings of rough stone, walls that followed their own formation so that the dim room was not square but narrow at one end and wider at the opposite where the bed stood. A ceiling and floor of stone composed the chamber of the same umber colored rock.

My God - _was she in_ _a_ _cave_?

Tapestry rugs of diverse patterns lay spread over the ground. A small table held a pitcher and basin. A candle also burned, giving her some light to see, but beyond the scant glow of the protective circle was nothing but rock and deeper darkness. She sat up further and noticed for the first time that her shoes were missing though she still wore stockings.

Anxiously she put a hand to her bodice and looked down, thankful to find her clothes fully covering her. At some point her net must have fallen loose from her hair, which was a tangled mess of curls all about her. She wore only her loose shift beneath, so no tight bone lacings of a corset could be the cause of her constricted breathing or fainting spell. She found it difficult to think. What had made her lose consciousness? She was not one given to swooning without a strong reason, could not remember a time in her past when she did.

She moved off the bed, high enough that she had to clutch its edge to ease her feet to the cave floor as dizzy as she felt. The mattress was wide enough for two people to rest more than comfortably, the velvet, tasseled canopy also suggesting that the monolith came from an earlier century, perhaps the Renaissance. In all likelihood it was a theater prop... _if_ she still remained within the boundaries of the opera house.

Trembling with a curious dread to find herself in such a bizarre chamber with only the fuzzy memory of a tall, cloaked form calling out to her, no – _singing_ to her in a hauntingly rich voice of being _her Angel_ – and _**she**__** had gone**_ to him! – she quickly searched the ground for her shoes, intent on finding a way out of this cavern of darkness. A quick search revealed that only exotic rugs covered the icy floor of stone.

The sudden scrape of a beam lifting from wood had her whirl around.

She pressed her hand to her heart in a vain effort to quiet its erratic beats, while in the shadows of the narrow part of the room, an arched door she'd not noticed before swung slowly outward.

A dark shape loomed in the opening – a man – with shoulders so broad they appeared almost to touch the walls and standing so tall, his head came close to the upper rim of rock. The flame from a torch flickered on the wall behind him, outlining his intimidating form while casting the front of him in shadow.

She gasped, taking an instinctive step backward. He didn't move from where he stood, his bearing like that of a tall, dark wraith. Stunned, she took him in from head to foot.

An ebony cloak shrouded his lean, powerful build and hung very nearly to the hem of his dark trousers. A fitted mask of black leather molded the upper part of his face from nose to forehead, a match to the raven black hair that grew thick and long, brushing past his high stiff collar. A black cravat, and a silk waistcoat embroidered in gold finished the overwhelming picture. His appearance was an anomaly, his clothing refined, that of a gentleman - but his physical attributes were wild and his bearing dangerous.

Christine's earlier questions jumbled inside her mind. Only one would present itself.

"Who are you?" Her voice came tight and she backed up a step to the two he took as he entered the shadowed chamber.

An indolent smile curved his lips, the lower one slightly fuller than the top, a sardonic tilt lifting their corners.

"Surely you have borne witness to my presence inside the theater?"

His accented voice was deep and rich, an entity unto itself, deeper than any voice she remembered ever hearing. His voice - his very presence - charged the damp, still air and produced a chill of foreboding down her spine.

Her terrifying abductor, this fearsome being, could be only one man …

"The Phantom of the Opera," she whispered in dread.

He bowed from the waist, holding the inside edge of his cloak with one hand and bringing it up before him, his every movement fluid, darkly poetic…

"And so, Mademoiselle Daae," he said once he straightened to his original stance and again stared at her. "We meet at last."

The quiet greeting held something unnerving behind it … derisively polite, almost sinister.

She lifted her chin and swallowed hard, forcing words to come over shallow breaths.

"Wh-where am I? This is _not_ the theater."

"No, it is not."

"So why have you brought me to this place?" she fairly shrieked when he said no more, ill at ease by his disturbing composure. "What do you even _want_ with me? And, and – _where are my shoes!_"

He smirked at her last question, but she did not care how inane she sounded. She only wanted answers, her footwear – and then, to find a way out of this godforsaken cave!

"You are in the depths of my dark dungeons, five levels below the earth from where I have brought you. Your purpose for being here you will know full well in time. And you have no need of shoes, as you are not leaving this chamber."

_Five levels below_ _the_ _… not leaving …_

She blinked in shock. "You mean to keep me _prisoner_ here?"

"That is entirely up to you."

She shook her head in wary confusion of his mocking quips that told her little or nothing at all. A sudden rush of anger surged through her blood at his undeserved cruelty. **"**_**You cannot do this to me!**_**"**

"In that respect you are mistaken. I already have."

Where he stood, he blocked the exit. But even if she could somehow slip around his daunting form and escape, he would likely outrun her and swoop down on her like some great winged bat. Desperate, she tried to think of something to say to stop his evil intent.

"They will come looking for me! Those who run the theater." She had no idea if they would or not but prayed it so.

"No one will expend the time or effort to search for a cleaning woman, mademoiselle. The impotents who run the theater will assume you were dissatisfied with such a menial job and left."

"Without telling anyone?"

"It has happened before."

"I will _**not **_stay here!" With her fists balled at her sides, she rushed forward without thinking.

At her sudden movement, he visibly tensed and also took a swift step closer, his eyes glinting hard in warning as he looked down his masked nose at her. She came to a stunned halt. She stood tall for a woman, the top of her head coming almost to his chin, and she could now see more clearly in the light of the candle's sole flame.

She felt as if she'd been punched in the stomach. All the air seemed to leave her lungs, and she remembered what caused her to faint.

"You have no choice but to stay," he answered, but her mind struggled elsewhere.

"Your eyes …" She felt absent from reality.

He showed no flicker of emotion.

"They're golden."

"Your perception truly astounds."

She ignored his cutting remark. "I once knew someone with golden eyes ..."

"How intriguing." He sounded bored.

"It is a most unusual color. I've never seen eyes that color – except once ... now twice…" Her breathy words came dazed, her lips barely moving as she spoke. "… I would never forget those eyes."

"Mademoiselle." His manner grew condescending. "I can take you out to the Rue Scribe at this moment and point out ten people with eyes the color of amber. It is not as uncommon as you seem to believe."

She drew her brows together in a frown. With little to judge by, having rarely left the remote Heights or The Grange, except during her time abroad with the de Chagnys, when in her despondency she paid scant attention to others, she reasoned he could be telling the truth…

_What was she thinking?_ From what little she could recall of her lost love, his eyes were the only similarity to this brigand's features. The Phantom's hair was a shiny raven black not soft sable brown, he stood too tall, his shoulders were too broad, his voice too deep, and he was much too cruel.

Still, she could not let her suspicion go so easily. There was one matter that yet troubled.

"Why do you wear a mask?"

"The obvious answer is that I do not wish for my face to be seen."

Her heart gave a mad jump at his impatient admission then crashed with his next words.

"I am a wanted man, as I'm sure you've been told. It would not do for anyone to see my face and be able to describe my features to the gendarmes. Someone might recognize me."

"That is the only reason?"

"What reason would you prefer? That I am in keen search of a masquerade ball since I am not without costume?"

"There's no need to be nasty about it." Distress made her snap at him. Anyone who would abduct a helpless woman could be nothing but spiteful. "What is your name?"

"I thought we established that."

"Your true name."

"I cannot tell you ..."

"– _Cannot_? Or _will_ not?" Her heart gave another mad thud.

"... for the same reason I do not show my face," he continued without emotion as if she had not interrupted. "I wish my identity to remain secret. I have no desire to spend the remaining number of my days in a French prison."

She would leave no stone unturned.

"Your first name only then," she forced herself to say the words. " Is it … are you … _Erik?_" Her plea came out in a raspy whisper.

From what she could see of his stony countenance, not one nuance of his expression altered.

"Tell me!"

"No … I am not."

She pressed her lips together at his careless reply, still not satisfied and determined to get to the crux of the matter. "You don't know me? We've not met before? _Known_ one another before?"

He narrowed his eyes but remained silent.

"In England. Have you been to England …? _Have you?_" she insisted, taking a step closer so that she had to tilt her head back to look at him.

"Before finding a home in Paris, what _home_ this is," He lifted his gloved hand to motion to the walls in derision, "I spent my days at the shah's palace in Persia."

She frowned. That hardly answered her question. "But have you ever –"

"No." His voice came chilling and cold. "I have never been to England."

"Do you swear it?"

He regarded her in disdainful amusement and took a step back from where she had come to stand so close. Indolently he crossed his arms over his chest as if pandering to a child.

_"Do you swear it!"_

"If you wish."

"Say it. Say the words. _Swear_ to me you've never been there - _that you're not him!_"

He held back for several anxious breaths, as if to punish her for her impertinence. His eyes were cold.

"I swear that I have never been to visit the Queen's homeland and I am not this 'Erik' of your past. Satisfied?"

_Satisfied_? She refrained from a bubble of hurt laughter. Hardly. She guessed that the powerful longing to have him back pushed her into following such an outrageous assumption, that _this_ _fiend_ could actually be …

No. He would never be so cruel to put her through such torment.

Her heart fell with the emergence of that truth and she retreated, dropping her gaze to the ground, then remembered her initial question. Again she turned to glare at him.

"Do you make a habit of abducting innocent women and dragging them to your cave? I _demand_ to know what you want with me."

"You are hardly in a position to make demands."

She stamped her stocking-clad foot in frustration. "Damn it! Why have you brought me here!"

He chuckled, pleased with her reaction. "What language for an _innocent_," he exclaimed in mock horror. "Temper, temper, mademoiselle."

Ready to show him just how hot her temper could get, she stopped short of grabbing the candlestick to throw at him. With a swiftness that made her veins freeze like ice she recalled the lush, wide bed on which she woke. Besides the table, the bed was the only furnishing in the room. Her eyes widened and she felt she now understood as she backed up a step.

"I have heard about you, about the defenseless women you molest in corridors. Do not dare lay a hand on me, monsieur. If you attempt it, I will scratch your amber-golden eyes out! I_ swear it!_"

Something dangerous flickered in those mesmerizing eyes she had just threatened. In the candle's flame they truly did seem to glow. His lips pulled into a tight line.

"So, Little Giry has been busy with her theater gossip again. If she would expend half her energy on the dance as she does in meddling in other's affairs, she might be a prima ballerina by this time instead of an underling in the chorus."

"You deny her claim?"

He only stared at her, his expression inscrutable.

"I thought not." She lifted her chin. "Again, I will warn you, _Monsieur_ _Phantom_," she put a mocking twist to the title. "Keep your distance."

"You flatter yourself, mademoiselle." He flicked a dispassionate eye over her form. "I have no interest in any womanly attributes you may possess."

His demeaning attitude stung her pride, though she certainly did not covet such interest, especially from him. After the lechery Henri attempted which led to his death and the reason she fled to Paris and found herself in this godforsaken cave in the first place, she wanted no man's touch again. She wondered what this Phantom creature would say if she told him that she was wanted for killing a man. He probably wouldn't bat one dark eyelash. In all likelihood he had killed many in cold blood, along with his "accidents" - and who knew what other crimes he was guilty of committing …

"Why should I believe you?" Try as she might, she could not disguise the quaver in her voice. "From all I've heard of your numerous exploits, you are a horrid_ beast! A ruthless monster! A true devil in disguise –"_

He laughed darkly and she broke off from spouting her next insult, her eyes going wide with shock at his response. He actually seemed _pleased_ to hear her condemn him!

"Yes," He stalked closer, "I am all those things. A _beast_. A _demon_ …" His stride was long and lithe and ruthless, a savage panther advancing toward her, and she, his prey, panicked and backed up until her thighs hit the edge of the bed. "… a terrible phantom you would not wish to tangle with, mademoiselle. You would do well to remember that."

Had he shouted, his threat could not come any more menacing than the silken trap of his tone. His voice was like music, deep, rich and fluid, but his words were sheer evil. She swallowed hard, unable to tear her eyes from the wall of his chest now only inches from her face.

"Please let me go." Her plea came barely above a whisper.

"That is not possible."

He did not move. She did not ask again. Did not dare draw a single breath, could not again look into those searing eyes that judged her with their strange, jaded, merciless contempt. The very air around her felt static with electricity that seemed to burn the oxygen from the air and make it difficult to breathe…

As sudden as his approach was he retreated from her just as swiftly.

Shaken by the encounter, realizing she was trembling, Christine inhaled a scorching breath into her lungs. Desperate to leave, she looked to where he now stood by the table with his back toward her and tried to reason with him.

"I – I don't understand why you won't let me go – you clearly don't like me –"

"I don't even _know_ _you_ to form such an opinion, mademoiselle."

A shiver trembled through her at an echo of similar dark words from another lifetime. She pushed the painful memory aside.

"I have found that women are foolish, vain, and capricious creatures." He turned and gave a graceful dismissive toss with his black-gloved hand. "From all I have witnessed, you fit into the mold with the rest of your gender."

His offhand arrogance made her grit her teeth, his distance reviving the fight in her.

"And how would you expect me to react, monsieur? I find myself suddenly in a cold, tomblike prison with little idea of how I got here – and no understanding of _why_ _I_ _am_ here! My shoes are missing, I'm hungry – and now confronted by a _villainous rake_ of a Phantom whose name so accurately describes his character – _sinister, wicked, and cruel beyond reason!_"

Frustration with her plight brought her words to a whimpering conclusion. Angry tears filled her eyes, but she would not allow them to fall in this pitiless ogre's presence, and she crossed her arms over her chest and lifted her chin, hoping to prevent the occurrence.

The Phantom did not flinch at her tirade. "Very well, Mademoiselle Daae. I will tell you all of what you wish to know…."

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: Oh, dear. Doesn't look like Christine and the Phantom are getting along too well upon meeting, does it? One can hardly blame her for her hostility though… **

***Gives angelic smile at this wee bit o' the twist… 0-:-) (slowly backs away… wonders if she needs to run and hide for fear of being Punjabbed …) **

**I told you this would be different - and you ain't seen nothin' yet! muahahaha!  
**


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: Yay– you're still with me! :) Thank you ****so much, phriends****! ****And now…**

* * *

**XIX**

.

He twisted his lips in a dry smile, regarding his captive songbird with chill aplomb.

She stood a short distance away, tears clouding large brown eyes that glared at him.

Her mouth was an angry pale line, her hair a wild nest of matted, dark curls all around her slight body that trembled with terrified rage. She hardly depicted the image of what he had in mind for her, but he learned long ago that appearances were often deceiving.

"I have brought you here, mademoiselle, for one purpose and one alone. You will sing for me."

Christine blinked at the absurdity of his proclamation. Not a question, not a request – a bold, outright demand.

"Then you will be sadly disappointed, monsieur. For I cannot sing."

"You lie. I have heard you."

Her mouth dropped open in shock. "You were _spying_ on me?"

"It is hardly considered spying when one sings in a public establishment."

"That is rather a case of splitting hairs. You must have realized I thought myself to be alone…" She frowned and regarded him with narrowed eyes of skepticism. "How is it that you know about the Angel of Music? It was a tale from my mother's homeland, originating from her village. Surely, you could not know of it, unless …"

Not wishing to travel down that tiresome path again, he swiftly put an end to her niggling suspicions. "I stood behind the mirror when you told Mademoiselle Giry of your childhood tale. In your induced state of mind, I presumed you would heed my call. Or to put it more aptly – the Angel of Music's call."

She stuck out her lower lip in a pout. "Is that all you do? Spy on others? Is that why they call you a ghost – _wait_." She bit the word out as the truth hit her. "_Induced?_ Then you … _you__** drugged**__ my wine?_"

"A necessary evil to bring you down here."

She glared at him. "At last we agree on something, monsieur. It _was_ evil."

He nodded in acknowledgement.

She questioned the logic of continuing in this vein – of arguing with a madman.

"So then, Meg works for you? She lured me into your trap?" She felt a hint of disappointment. The girl was somewhat over animated, even a trifle frustrating to follow at times, but Christine had liked her, even hoped that the two of them might become friends one day …

"It was by happenstance that Meg Giry poured the wine. She had no part in the plan to bring you to me. I have never met the young mademoiselle."

"Then how –"

He held up one black-gloved hand. "You pose many questions that I do not care to answer. You wished to know the reason I brought you here. Do you wish to know the rest or should I now bid you adieu?"

She pressed her lips together and gave a short nod.

"You, Mademoiselle Daae, will be my star, my greatest triumph. I will train you to know all you must in order to perform the lead in the next opera."

She stared at him in incredulous disbelief. "And if I refuse?"

"Then the daylight will become to you only a memory and any voices you hear will be your own – and mine, should I choose to speak." His smile was wicked. "You will never again consort with the rabble who lives above."

"You don't mean to keep me locked away forever!"

"Only if you disagree to the terms I set. Should you prove so unwise, these damp caverns will become your home and you will live the rest of your days in these corridors of darkness," he echoed her greatest fear from childhood of being without light.

Christine shook her head, trying to make sense of all of this. _She_ was the one with the angelic voice that Meg had spoken of with regard to his note?

"You mean to say that in those few minutes I took the stage, singing rather badly I might add, that you then made the decision to abduct me and force me to become _your star_?"

"The moment I heard you sing."

"And you expect me to believe that?"

He shrugged. "I often make spontaneous decisions. Rarely am I mistaken, and I do not believe I am mistaken about you. You have a rare gift, a natural quality of tone. A diamond in the rough, in need of being cut and polished to produce the highest sparkle."

She regarded him without a change of expression, not won over by his poetic turn of phrase. Years ago, she had been admired for her talent by many, a vicomte, barons, even a duke. But only one man's praise had ever truly mattered.

"And if I do sing?" She had no intention of singing for this monster, but wished to know the entirety of his ominous plan.

"I will keep you with me only as long as it takes to train you. With practice and guidance, you could excel and surpass any diva of the stage, and most importantly and especially the toad La Carlotta. You will work long days, every day, to achieve the excellence of which I believe you capable. You will give me your full cooperation and not disobey me. If you try my patience, I will not be a merciful host. You will rue the day that you did not do all I have commanded."

Her mouth parted with his first words, dropping wider with each chilling sentence aired. Again, she contemplated some method of fleeing from his prison and glanced toward the open door. He seemed to read her mind, his eyes narrowing to golden slits.

"If you think to deceive me will provide a way of escape, you are gravely mistaken. You are _never_ to walk these passageways alone, should I decide to unbar the door in the future. Traps in abundance are hidden within the wide maze of corridors. Any one of them could lead to your certain death."

"Is that all?" she asked with a hint of her own sarcasm. Her heart pounded with apprehension at his warning.

"There is one final matter…"

By his tone of disgust, it gave him no pleasure to speak it.

By the inscrutable look that burned in his eyes, she feared to know it.

x

Christine's nails bit into her palms, her hands closing into fists at her sides as she nervously waited for the Phantom to continue. Her nerves stretched tighter with every passing second that he did not speak, and she was on the verge of screaming when he finally told her.

"At the first available opportunity, you will bind yourself to me in holy wedlock."

Christine gaped at her abductor, certain she had misunderstood his quiet words. She _must_ have misunderstood them…

When he continued to regard her, awaiting her reply, she let out a short hysterical laugh.

"You truly are mad."

"Many have said it."

The half twist to his lips in a cruel parody of a smile showed his cynical amusement, but the steady burn of his eyes made clear he spoke in absolute sincerity.

She'd had enough of playing the trapped canary to his stalking cat. "Why would you make such a bizarre condition? Outside of my voice, you've made it clear how you feel about me - and I sure as hell cannot stomach the sight of you!"

His eyes glinted with fire, making her heart jump. _She_ must be the one who was mad, to continue to argue with this fiend whose mind was so clearly unbalanced. She forced a quieter tone. "I will never marry you, monsieur. I would rather die first."

"As you wish."

He moved to go and she faltered.

"Wait – _what?_ You cannot just leave me here!"

He turned slightly and regarded her with a sidelong stare. "Did I not make my conditions clear as to the matter of your release?"

"What sort of release is that? To join with you in holy wedlock!There's nothing_ holy _about it! That would be consigning my life to a living, breathing hell! You told me you have no interest in my attribu - in me," she floundered. "So why in the name of all that IS holy do you demand such an arrangement that is distasteful to us both?"

"I have my reasons. Purely clinical. The marriage will be in name only. Once your voice is trained in the few short months we have to do so and you have learned the opera to my satisfaction, I will release you to go above."

She scowled at his outlandish terms. "And will you then release me from this absurd marriage bond as well?"

"Non," his answer came swift and brittle. "For business purposes, strictly to protect my own interests, _you will remain bound only to me._"

She felt a strange breathlessness in the way he emphasized his last phrase, forceful and low through clenched teeth, and she had to compel herself to think… Dear God, the drug he used must be affecting her mind. She had nothing to think about! Perhaps he had also used the drug to manipulate her agreement, hoping to dull her mind and confuse her logic. Well, her mind was not dull and her logic was quite sound!

"_I will not marry you,"_ she said with the same amount of emphasis he used. "I _will_ _never_ marry you."

"Then we have nothing further to discuss."

"But – honestly – you can't just leave me here! Locked up, for an indefinite period of time? Surely you must realize that I cannot live under these conditions … what if I … have needs?" She felt her face heat.

"Everything you need is beyond that wall. I will bring your supper to you."

"And will it be drugged too?" she asked, her voice like poisoned honey.

He regarded her as if bored. "As I previously stated, the potion was necessary to bring you down here. Though it may startle you, I'm not in the habit of drugging a lady's food or wine. If you prefer, I will first taste all meals in your presence."

"What I _prefer_ you refuse to give me." She pouted in frustration, crossing her arms.

"Then it seems, mademoiselle, we have reached a stalemate. Adieu."

Before she could form a worthy retort, he retreated, his tall figure blocking the torchlight. The door closed with an elongated creak behind him. She stared, open-mouthed as she heard the wooden bar drop into its condemning position.

That _was it?_ She was _his prisoner?_

She shook her head in disbelief. This _must_ be a bizarre dream, an eerie nightmare brought on by the frightening turn her life had recently taken, aided by drinking wine on an empty stomach and Meg's unending talk of a Phantom haunting the theater. She moved to the bed and placed her palms on it, pushing herself up to sit on the mattress. Once seated, her feet did not touch the ground.

Pressing her fingertips to her temples, she closed her eyes. "It's only a dream, Christine. This is much too fanciful to be real. It's time to wake up now." She rubbed her scalp harder and opened her eyes. Frowning to see her surroundings had not altered, she pinched her forearm hard and winced.

It was no dream.

She wanted to scream in rage, to cry in misery, to laugh in hysteria – but she only remained silent and stared at the formidable wall of rock. Dark, unyielding, and solid, like her Phantom abductor.

This belonged to the gothic and grim tales of her youth: the fearsome ogre who trapped the frightened maiden in his bleak dungeon, intent on keeping her to himself and making impossible conditions for release that offered only eternal imprisonment with no hope of ever being set free. She inhaled a nervous breath. Who was there to rescue her? Immediately she thought of the princely Raoul – he would save her from that merciless Phantom! But Raoul was in England, not France … and she … she still had no idea where she was, except that she dwelt five levels beneath the earth in a cold, dark cave.

Christine shivered and stared at the bed – a princess's bed – and felt even more enmeshed in this otherworldly tale in which she now lived and breathed. With the sort of monster her abductor had proven to be, she was surprised he had not provided a filthy narrow pallet for her to sleep on. Instead he had given her a taste of luxury, the finest to be had …

Oh, this was too bizarre! She had to find a way out of this gothic dungeon, since there was no one to help her. If that fiend were correct, those in the theater would not be looking for her whereabouts, assuming she had left to find employment elsewhere. Claudette was a slave driver. No one would question Christine's sudden disappearance. The Phantom was correct in that regard.

It was ironic that she had come to France for a place to hide, and had wound up in these underground chambers that offered no chance of ever being found. The law, she no longer had need to fear. She had evaded capture, only to find herself imprisoned in a torture chamber of traps, whatever _those_ consisted of. Surely iron bars and a hangman's noose would have been the lesser of two evils.

The tears she tried to suppress slipped down her cheeks and impatiently she wiped them away with the backs of her fingers.

She would not cry. There was no time for self-pity, however well deserved. Instead, she took up the candleholder, to investigate and see what needs the Phantom thought her worthy of having.

Still feeling as if her mind was smothered in cotton from whatever drug he'd given her, she slowly walked to the wall he had alluded to but saw no door, no entrance, only solid rock. Frustrated, she wondered if he had lied, but why should he bend honesty with such a trivial matter when he had told her the truth in all else? – The distorted truth of his plan.

She walked to one edge of the wall, then the opposite, surprised to find that here the edge did not connect to the adjoining wall. A shallow gap made a crevasse, leading to a sharp turn. From a distance in the shadows the gap looked like part of the same wall.

Nervous to plumb the darkened corridor yet curious to see what lay beyond her prison chamber, she moved forward, the weak flame from her sole candle flickering along the stone and casting giant shadows all around. She forced back her girlhood fear of darkness – childish when compared to the nightmare of all she had been made to suffer – and turned as the corridor ended and led to another gap. She entered and gasped, almost dropping the candle.

A bath chamber lay before her, replete with all necessary items and sprinkled with odd and sundry luxuries. A claw-footed tub sat in one corner and toweling lay folded on a table beside it. She wondered how she was to retrieve water. She certainly could not picture the fearsome Phantom carrying buckets of it for her! At the image of such bizarre servitude associated with the heartless rogue she gave an insane little giggle.

She felt as if insanity wasn't long in coming, her life one horrible mockery ordered by one of the more devious Fates. Her absence from the world into the prison of her mind after she lost Erik had been a release … perhaps that trail to emptiness could be retraced and she could return to the bliss of numbness again, devoid of pain and fear and life and feeling …

A coarse scraping of rock high above had her swing her attention to the noise. Raising her candle, she moved cautiously to see.

Two startled blue eyes stared at her from beyond a wall of rock.

Alarmed she dropped the candle.

All went dark.

She screamed, then screamed again, loud and long, until her throat burned with fire. Still, she could not stop screaming. Tears of fright and despair coursed down her face.

Dear God! She was going to die in this tomb – horrible, unknown creatures lay in wait beyond the walls – waiting, watching …

…and she was their captive prey.

With no sense of vision or direction and nowhere to run, her hysteria magnified tenfold.

Christine backed up into predatory, yawning emptiness, hollow and black – and a pair of outstretched hands that brushed against her shoulders.

She screamed again and her knees buckled. The hands gripped her hard and strong arms then wrapped around her before she could sink fully to the ground. She began to whimper.

At once, she felt herself swept up into those arms and held firmly against a warm, solid chest.

"Hush… It's alright… You have no need to fear…"

Madness must be the whisper that assured her of safety, disguised as his quiet, steady voice. It failed to matter. At present, the bottomless, foreign darkness and the eyes that had watched her threatened as her greater foes.

Frantically she clutched his waistcoat in a tight fist, in danger of popping buttons while her spinning mind betrayed her into a different darkness. The last thing she remembered was the brush of molded leather as her head fell softly to his shoulder and her temple brushed his mask.

**xXx**

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**A/N: Aw, Christine looks as if she'll be well cared for by her Phantom abductor…or will she? Hmmm… 0–:–)**

**Am LOVING all your comments! Please keep them coming! :) (Those waiting on more Symphony in the Twilight- I just sent the next chapter of that one to my beta- so it will be up soon...)  
**


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: Yeah, I know it's pretty grim and dark right now. It's going to get even darker- but there are better moments ahead. This story isn't all gloom and doom and angst, but there's a lot of it…this chapter has a tiny bit that could warrant an M rating. Some later chapters will have a lot, and in detail, as I warned in my premise and will also warn when that happens...**** As usual, this chapter is beta-less. Forgive any mistakes...**

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**XX **

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The second time Christine woke, it took her only moments to connect her strange surroundings with reality …

…this macabre fantasy that was _her_ chilling reality.

The room seemed brighter than before and she turned her head on the pillow to look. A multi-branched candelabrum replaced the single candleholder of earlier and a silver covered dish sat beside it. Her stomach clenched in revulsion at the smell and thought of food and she turned away from the sight.

An aroma that did not belong permeated her sleeve, where her arm lay curled near her head, and she brought her wrist closer. The richness of musk mingled with candle smoke … ink … and a lingering heady spice brought a soothing wash of warmth through her blood. A scent both familiar and foreign … his scent, and her clothing was covered with it from when he carried her in his arms.

Startled, she drew her hand quickly away from her face and sat up remembering. She had clung to him, her paradoxical savior and indifferent jailer. In that moment of darkest night all else failed to matter and his arms had been there to hold her.

She knew why, of course. She knew why she'd felt drawn to him, though he was nothing but a monster. And it was a betrayal to Erik's memory to even connect the two men in her mind. Erik had been cynical, fueled by his bitterness, but beneath the layers of pain, his heart had beat warm. The man who caged her was cruel, the silent, unspeakable rage that she had glimpsed the foundation of what must drive him. And surely though his eyes had burned, only ice could compose the shell of his soul. If he had a soul…

He had proven to be a ghoulish tyrant that identified with the title enough to call himself Phantom, and she would not become another one of his victims of the many he surely had claimed. Somehow, she would find a way out of his tomb!

And then she remembered what she had seen before she panicked and all went black.

Determination led her to pick up the candelabrum and move cautiously into the bath chamber. To her surprise, a torch blazed brightly from a holder mounted to the wall.

She brushed aside any weakness to his scrap of thoughtfulness to prevent a second frightening episode and set the candelabrum on the ground, taking the torch from its holder. Returning to the area where she had dropped the candle, she held the torch up high to shed light on the stones and gasped. A gap the size of a breadbox sat horizontal in the wall.

She firmly thrust aside all ideas of imps or goblins or trolls found in her childhood tales. There had to be an explanation. Now that she could think clearly, whatever drug he had used no longer affecting her mind, she realized the eyes she had seen were human, not those of a beast, not preternatural. She was sure of it. Large, innocent eyes. Blue in color…

Quickly she piled the towels and small vials of what she assumed contained bathing oils into the bathtub and dragged the table along the cave floor. Made of thick wood, it was too heavy to lift but would hold her slight weight. Stepping onto it, she could just peer into the gap by standing on the tips of her toes and holding to the bottom ledge.

She stared into a chamber the size of the theater!

What appeared to be part of a lake stood inside another room of the cavern, easily seen from the daylight that shimmered from an unknown source in the earth high above – the center of the water was spotlighted in a circle of dim white light. Numerous torches lined the high walls of this giant room of the cave, shedding a glow on its outskirts. But what gave her the greatest shock was the sight of two dark-headed children standing on the bank, closest to Christine. Her eyes widened.

Did the beast who caged her imprison the poor little mites as well? Perhaps if she could get free she could also help them.

"Hello!" she called out. "Can you help me?"

The girl jumped up and spun around, looking all over then up at Christine peering through the gap. The boy with her also looked but did not appear at all shocked to see her. They looked no older than ten, if that, the boy younger than the girl if she went by height. In the flame's glow, she could see both of them had blue eyes.

Mystery solved.

By appearance, they did not look like prisoners … neither of them looked as if they lived in forced servitude either. Both wore shoes, not often found in poverty and their clothes, though dirty, fit them well. The girl wore a cape that covered her completely and looked new. Could they be the Phantom's children?

Now wary, Christine deliberated with what to say.

"I wonder if you could help me?" She forced a light laugh, as if she weren't a terrorized captive in a dark pit but a carefree visitor on holiday and didn't think it odd to see two children five levels below the earth. "I seem to be locked in my chamber. I, um, promised the monsieur I would meet with him to - to sing, but I believe he forgot to unbar my door, and you know how impatient he gets when someone is late."

She hated to lie to innocent children, if indeed they were innocent and not his helpers or spies, though she assumed she told the truth about her jailer based on what little she'd seen of the madman. Desperate measures must be taken if she was to find her way back above to the saner world of daylight, however sane the theater could be considered.

The girl and boy looked at one another. She again turned to study Christine.

"Why would the Maestro bar your door if he expects you to join him?"

The _Maestro?_ Oh, really!

Christine masked her scowl at the absurd title of genius and gave a nervous laugh. "I suppose he's so accustomed to his traps and solitude he must have barred the door without thinking."

She hoped she described his character well enough.

The boy looked at the girl and insistently tugged at her cloak. She gave a disgusted snort. "Oh, alright, Jacques." She looked back at Christine. "Your door is not barred."

Of course it was barred. She had heard him bar it …

After he left the _first_ time.

What if the girl was correct and he didn't bar it once she fainted, though she doubted he would make such an error on his part.

"Oh … I see. Thank you." She hesitated, her conscience not willing to let her go so easily. "Are you both alright?"

"Oui." The girl looked confused by the question.

Christine hoped she wasn't making a mistake to persist. "Do either of you need help?"

The girl slipped her arm protectively around the boy, her manner suddenly distant and distrustful. "You had best go and meet with the Maestro before too much time passes, mademoiselle. As you have said, he does not like to be kept waiting."

Christine jumped to the ground, her heart pounding with a strange mix of hope and dread. Had she said too much and given herself away? Would the children run to tell him of what had transpired?

Not all of her strength had returned to her limbs since she drank his foul potion, and not eating for what must amount to a day certainly wasn't helping. She clutched the wall a moment to steady herself, thankful she at least had regained all presence of mind.

She would need every ounce of it for her escape.

She picked up the candleabrum and hastened to the chamber, setting the candleabrum back on the table, then hurried to the door. Suddenly hesitant, fearful he might be lying in wait on the other side and this was but a cruel trap to torment her, she eased her hand to the latch and moved it. The door gave way with a prolonged creak of hinges that made her wince…

But the corridor yielded no cloaked, dark jailer lying in wait.

She did not stop to consider why after all his meticulous planning for her capture he would do something so reckless as leave the door unbarred, only that he had, and she sped down the corridor, the few torches there lighting the path before her.

x

Shallow puddles of water covered large areas of the ground. Her feet grew wet and stung from the chill, but Christine continued her mad pace.

She bolted around the corner and came to a rapid halt and sudden end of the path - the corridor branched off in two directions. Looking back and forth at each one in panicked frustration, she decided on the path not as well lit, hoping it would be the one less used.

The squeaks of rodents made her cringe. She realized with a sudden jolt that she had no idea where she was or where these caverns led - to the silent catacombs of the dead for all she knew. If she had to investigate every chamber, crevice and door for a way out of this cold hell she _would_ find it. Death, dark and silent, would be preferable to the eternal pretense of living she would endure within these tombs.

_Erik, she silently cried. Why did you leave me to this black fate? How could you leave me at all? You_ swore_ we would be together forever! How could you do this to me!_

The sudden explosive sound of music stopped her mad flight as though it were a brutal, physical force. The dark, resonant chords of an organ filtered through the still, damp air.

Breathless, she stood and blinked in petrified shock.

_Music?_ So far beneath the earth…?

She could not tell where the source of the music came from; the haunting notes flowed and echoed all around, seeming to hold her back with invisible restraints.

"No …" she whispered to the fortress of dank stone. She forced herself to move forward, her legs trembling, and crept along a bend of the corridor.

All around the air vibrated with the dark, rich sound. Heavy and oppressive, it commanded her soul but held a strange lingering beauty that wrenched her heart. Never in her life had she heard anything so enthralling, so … alive. It was as if the master musician released the essence of his being through his fingertips onto the keys, the music reaching out and compelling her to come to him ...

A cavern with light filled the distance. She swallowed hard, the forceful pull of the music leading her though instinct bade her quickly to run the other way.

Christine had no choice but to obey the music.

x

She followed the mesmerizing notes and approached a massive chamber. Cautiously she peeked around the entrance.

Another part of what must be the same lake she had seen from her prison lay spread out like a luminescent green carpet of shimmering silk from the center of the room to a wall with a closed iron gate, and flowed into a darker cavern beyond that. Torchlight and candles were ablaze everywhere, casting light on furnishings exotic and opulent, like those a sultan would possess. The seductive reds, rich browns, and golden ambiance lent a warmth to the cathedral-like chamber. Here, the rock walls were lighter, of earthy red and dusky gold - not as oppressive - but a sudden chill made her shiver when she spotted the owner of the room.

In the chamber's center, on a bank of wide rock, a shallow staircase of the same stone led to a large dais upon which sat a massive black pipe organ. And at its keys, with his back to her, sat the Phantom of the Opera. It could be no one else.

She gasped, thankful he could not see or hear her. Assured that he was engrossed in his music, she took a moment to watch him. His body gracefully swayed with the rhythm as if he were one with the captivating chords….

He had dispensed with his cloak and waistcoat, and his linen shirt billowed in elegant folds around his sides and at his arms, stretching taut across wide shoulders. Even seated and at this distance, she could tell that his body was lean and powerful, and she remembered the feel of hard muscle beneath her grasping hand.

He was darkness … he was danger … he was …

A strange fire singed her face and flowed through her veins like melting wax, burning away what little breath she had regained. Uncertain and horrified by such an unexpected reaction to the sight of him, she backed up then whirled and sped away, taking the bend to another corridor as if the devil himself were chasing her. But she knew he wasn't.

He was still seated at his organ.

His music followed, enticing her return then commanding it. Her heart thundered in her breast. Her limbs trembled as she fought the possessive music, determined to free herself from its silken tentacles that endlessly reached for her, winding around her soul, determined to pull her back to obey the black heart of its master.

"No, no, no," she cried under her breath, tears stinging her eyes and blinding her escape.

God, she _was_ going mad!

She believed the music a lure to ensnare her to do his bidding. She had never felt such tangible emotion ravage her senses from hearing anyone play – was he a sorcerer? Had he put her under his spell?

Frantic, she ran through endless corridors. Corridors that began to look familiar, and she realized she was running in circles. He had told her of traps, but she had yet to cross one, unless his music was the trap to ensnare her to do his will …

She clapped her hands over her ears. "STOP IT!" she screamed at the top of her lungs. "STOP IT – YOU CAN'T MAKE ME! I CAN'T TAKE ANY MORE OF THIS! I WON'T!"

The music played on, her attempt to deny its haunting call useless. It followed her in its relentless chase down every corridor. It wove into her pores, filtering through her blood, insistent and demanding her ultimate and complete surrender. Her body shuddered so hard from the battle that her teeth began to chatter…

…when suddenly the music changed.

The feverish chords no longer bludgeoned her mind; now the evocative notes lingered, persuasive, provoking another kind of fever as they beckoned her to release all inhibition. Powerless, she stopped running and leaned her palm against the wall, feeling a different sort of faintness not induced by pharmaceutical potions.

She closed her eyes as his voice, dark and beautiful, began to flow with the music, reaching to her in the distant corridor. A drug unto itself, his voice wrapped around her and caressed her chafed senses. A secret heat she had not experienced in four years inflamed her blood. Her breasts throbbed, sensitive against her linen shift, aching to be touched. She slapped her palms to the wall, trying to repossess mind and body, trying _to_ _think. _But it was of no use. The music was too persuasive for her dwindling defenses.

A steady fire began to build in loins long dead, her every sense re-awakening to the consuming blaze. Damp heat trickled between her thighs as his silken voice enticed her, possessed her, growing gentle and persuasive, while the desire he evoked grew stronger.

_God – what was he doing to her?_

She _HAD TO__** LEAVE **_this dark dungeon of sensual madness!

_HAD TO LEAVE_…

_had to …_

Only…

…she could not move.

Panting, from exhaustion and exhilaration both she dropped her head back against the wall and gave up the struggle.

His provocative aria, his rich voice overpowered her waning strength of mind – heightening her physical awareness until she moaned in pleasurable agony, giving herself over to his music, both debauched and desirable. His unearthly voice was a velvet caress inside her soul, titillating every inch of fevered flesh until she swore she could feel his tangible touch on her skin; and as his music crescendoed in climactic wonder, so did she.

Shaken, she slid partway down the wall, falling to the ground as her legs no longer gave her support.

"Please, no more," she whispered.

Quiet awarded her mercy as the underground world returned to its ghostly sense of order. Empty… steady… The only sound she now heard the faint drip of water hitting stone …

… followed by the firm tread of advancing footsteps.

Oh, God … dear God, no …

Her senses reeled after her shattering experience, first chained to then raped by his music, and she barely managed to stand. Placing her hands along the wall for balance, she walked as fast as she was able. Footsteps rang against stone at the far end of the corridor and Christine darted a nervous glance over her shoulder.

Her mind screamed for her to run!

Only when his tall form appeared around the bend did sanity return and she exert the strength of will to obey.

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**xXx**

**A/N: Cliffie? What cliffie? I don't see a cliffie. Only a maze of corridors…**

**Backs into a convenient dark one and runs….**


	21. Chapter 21

**Thank you for the reviews! :) And now…**

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**XXI**

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Christine's lungs burned with flame, searing the fear deep inside her as she raced through the devil's dark tunnel. His abrupt curse and the pounding of steps coming up behind testified that he had spotted her.

Frantic, she drew on another burst of speed.

A corridor branched off to her right. She took it, squelching the old fear to find it filled with darkness and no torches to light the interior - hoping somehow to find a cubbyhole to hide, knowing it was useless but frantic to try. A film of water on the stones gave her location away as her feet splashed in wide puddles, and she heard him close in behind.

She ran in a fool's panic, aware that she could not possibly evade him, aware that he was faster and stronger and would catch her, even as tears of hopelessness clouded her eyes…

Suddenly she felt her shoulders grabbed and her body thrown sideways as he brought her with him against the wall. Her arm slammed into stone while her cheek grazed its coarseness as he covered her body with his, trapping her. Scalding tears from the fiery pain rushed to her eyes.

"_You little fool! Did I not warn you?_" he grated low in her ear.

She did not answer, could not attempt it, and felt thankful that darkness enshrouded them both. She did not want to bear witness to his fury, which she felt in the tension of every taut muscle and ridge of hard flesh pressed against her back. Her breathing came shaky as she tried in vain to stifle her quiet, terrified sobs. Her shoulder throbbed, her feet were icy and numb and every part of her shivered from fright and cold, except where the heat of his solid form scorched her.

He wrenched his body from hers, grabbing her above the elbow as he did and spinning her around to face him.

"Do you wish to see _the consequence_ of such folly?"

Without waiting for an answer he savagely pulled her out of the corridor, his gloved hand a vice threatening to cut off her blood flow, and grabbed a torch from the wall of the main corridor. Pulling her along with him, he stormed back into the dark tunnel. She practically ran to keep up to his swift pace so as not to stumble or fall on the wet paving.

He reached an area a short distance from where he'd caught her and came to an abrupt halt. Releasing her, he pushed the torch her way, "Hold this." The fire reflecting in his eyes warned her not to run. He picked up a loose hunk of rock from the ground with both hands and threw it hard ahead of them. She gasped as the center of the floor gave way where the rock slammed onto stone.

Ruthless, he snatched his torch away from her and pulled her with him to the edge of a set of dripping trapdoors. He brought her perilously close to the rim, thrusting the torch forward and down. She closed her eyes, fearful that in his black rage he might throw her inside, but felt too stunned and numb of mind to fight back.

"_**Look – damn you!"**_

His powerful grip on her arm never loosened. Cautiously she opened her eyes - and gasped in horror.

Her toes rested at the edge of a square pit that led into black, gaping nothingness and … she drew her brows together, staring beyond, where the torchlight illuminated past layers of thick darkness. Far below where she stood she saw the ground of the pit slither and undulate in serpentine coils.

The blood rushed from her head and her stomach turned, bile rising to her throat as she realized what the pit held. Had she run several feet further before he caught her she would have been its victim … the victim of many ...

Shock made her dizzy. Fearing that she might lose consciousness again, she squeezed her nails into the flesh of her palms until she was sure they bled.

"Throughout the darkened tunnels are trapdoors such as these," he bit out twisting her swiftly away from the trap and stepping closer to her. "Each one contains something dangerous, even deadly. Any attempt to escape your fate will lead to certain death! _Now_ do you understand?"

Aghast by his words and what horrors _this_ pit held, she timidly nodded. Her wide eyes never left his burning ones.

He released his hold on her to press his gloved hand to the wall against a rock. The trapdoors slammed upward and shut. Grabbing her arm again, he turned with her back to the main tunnel, the leather fingers of his glove digging into her flesh. He needn't have worried that she would try to break away and run; she now knew such escape was futile but couldn't find her voice to tell him so.

He pulled her a long distance through the main torch-lit corridors. She dared not look at him the entire time. A small, remote part of her marveled that she had run so far and she wondered about the vastness of these caverns. Certainly they must extend far past the opera house.

At last he pulled her into her prison chamber and thrust her from him. She staggered a few steps, grabbing the bedpost so as not to fall to her knees. She kept her head down, her eyes glued to the rug at her feet. Bile coated her throat, stronger than before, her stomach rising up in roiling protest.

"How did you get out?" His words came clipped. "_Tell me!_"

She shook her head, clapping her hand over her mouth, but made it no further than halfway to the bath chamber before her churning stomach gave over its contents. Retching and shaking violently, she fell to her hands and knees.

She would have fallen face down in the stinking refuse if not for two large hands that suddenly gripped her upper arms hard. Her stomach continued to heave, though it had nothing left to give, while he held her up. Then, for the third time in less than a day's span, the Phantom lifted her weakened body in his arms and carried her to the bed.

Once he laid her on top of the coverlet, she curled into a ball on her side, mortified that he'd seen her in such a wretchedly indisposed state, at the same time not without satisfaction to hear him return to the corridor and clean the mess. It was no less than he deserved for keeping her his prisoner! No doubt the combination of the wine, the drug, and her narrow escape from his fanged pets within his maze of horrors had all contributed to her physical distress.

She heard him enter her chamber but did not lift her head from the pillow to acknowledge him. He exited without a word.

She dully noticed he left her door open, no doubt assured of her change of heart after witnessing the frightful secrets of his dungeon. He was only half correct. She would never again attempt to flee through any dark corridors to find safety. But there had to be another way to escape this hellish prison. She would not live out the rest of her days with that madman!

The shock began to fade, a spark of her old spirit returning. How dare he do this to her ... _how dare he! _She _would_ find a way to escape him …

...even if she had to kill him.

The sudden thought made her heart pound with nervous shock. She had killed once, by accident, to safeguard her virtue. Could she actually kill a man in cold blood, even to regain her freedom?

She lay on her side and watched the torch flicker against the corridor wall, the shadows dancing madly as she considered such a desperate solution. After some time a shape obstructed her line of vision as her abductor returned, a chalice in his hand. He moved to the edge of the bed and looked down at her though she did not look at him. He did not lay a hand on her but she felt his presence through every fiber as if he had.

"Drink this." He held the golden cup toward her.

"You cannot be serious." A returning flicker of resentment caused her to push herself up with one hand and glare at him. "You really don't suppose that I would drink anything _you_ have to give me?" She almost laughed.

"Unless you plan to wither of thirst during your time here then you have no choice."

"And how do I know you haven't drugged it!"

"For what reason would I do so now that I have you in my home?"

"To keep me insensible? To have your way with me?"

He lifted his brow, she could tell by the manner in which his mask moved. His golden eyes regarded her with disdain.

"I told you I have no interest in you other than having you perform the lead in my opera."

This time she did laugh in scorn. "Why should I _believe_ you?"

"Believe what you will, but you are not the type of woman with whom I would wish to consort."

She glared at him. "No, I would never wander the halls late at night, _crying out for you_ _like some wanton cat in heat!"_

His eyes narrowed to golden slits. _"Drink the damned tonic before I pour it down your throat!"_

"NO!"

He stepped forward in threat. Startled, she drew back and brought the pillow up against her chest, crossing her arms over it.

His nostrils flared as she warily eyed him. In an instant, he seemed to calm and think better of what he first planned.

"You fear it is drugged? Perhaps this will convince you." He took a swallow from the chalice. "As you see, it is untainted. Free from all but the mint which will help settle your stomach."

She lifted her chin peevishly. "I told you, I want _nothing_ from you."

He slammed the chalice down on the table. "Then suffer in your infantile foolishness if that is your choice!" he sneered, "I wash my hands of trying to help a young chit with not even _half_ the sense of a silly child."

He swept to the entrance, his long strides eating up the distance.

"Help me?" she cried after him in disbelief. "If you truly wish to _help me_ you'll let me go!"

He exited her chamber, slamming the door behind him. She heard the bar ram home.

"Damn you," she seethed, then louder so he would be sure to hear - "_**Damn you!**_"

Picking up the chalice Christine threw it with all her might. It hit the door, the contents splashing stones and wood, the golden chalice hitting the ground with a strident ring.

Any morsel of satisfaction to dispense with his feeble offering of comfort was lost as the weight of her plight weighed heavy on her soul, and she collapsed back to the bed.

Christine stared a long time at the canopy, her altercation with the Phantom giving her an idea. The next morning she would waste no time with putting _her plan_ in motion.

**xXx**

She woke to see breakfast in its silver covered dome had been brought to her. Ignoring it, she tended to her needs in the bath chamber.

Her clothing felt sticky against her skin but with nothing to change into she did her best to clean up. First, however, she thirstily drank water directly from the new pitcher on the table that he had put back to its original position, assuming he would not lace her wash water with any drug. She then poured half into a basin and sponged her face and what skin was exposed at her neck and above her bosom, gingerly tending to her arms, both the new bruises he'd put there and the fading ones from almost two weeks before.

With a frown, Christine glanced up at the gap in the wall, deciding further discoveries would have to wait. She had no strength to put the table back where she had placed it.

Her hair was a straggled mess; she needed no mirror to tell her that. She was almost grateful to see a silver handled hairbrush in the inclusion of items he'd thought her worthy of having. She brushed her hair with relentless strokes until it lay in a shawl of ripples almost reaching to her waist. As the day progressed, the ripples would invariably spring into an untidy abundance of coils, not that she cared what she looked like; but wearing her hair down helped to warm her. She wished for her cloak to completely cover herself. She had left it in her dormitory and wondered if in her absence one of the other workers had taken it. It had been of simple, sturdy weave - certainly not as fine as what she had worn during her stay at The Grange - but it had kept her warm.

With a sigh, she returned to the bed, sat down and lifted the dome. Broiled kidneys along with a poached egg on toast tantalized her senses. She grimaced at the sight of the food. In direct opposition, her stomach betrayed her with a demanding growl. It _would_ have to be a morning meal similar to those she had enjoyed in England.

Determined to follow through with her plan, she grabbed the fork, wryly noticing he'd given her no knife. The fork would have to be enough. With no corset to hide the utensil, she looked for a place of concealment, at last deciding to stow it beneath the edge of the mattress.

Should his words prove a lie - a likelihood that wouldn't surprise her - at least she would have a weapon to prevent him from doing something even more despicable than drugging and abducting and terrorizing her. After Henri's treachery she trusted no man living, save for Raoul. He had never caused her pain, and she wished she could have found it in her heart to love him as he wanted; it certainly would have prevented all this! She would be home in England, not France, and perhaps enjoying the morning sunrise in the breakfast room - not shivering in a dark, dank cave. With a sigh, she replaced the dome over the food, turned her back to it, and lay down on her side, pulling the coverlet high to her neck.

The prolonged creak of the door brought her out of a light slumber. Slowly she draped her arm over the edge of the mattress, her fingers feeling for the fork. Finding it, she turned her head to look.

The sight of the girl standing there with another covered dish made her sit up in surprise. She blinked at her. "Hello."

The girl inclined her head in greeting and swiftly moved to the table. She set the dish down and took up the other then moved back toward the door.

"Wait!" Christine cried, stunned that she would leave so quickly.

The girl turned, curiosity etched on a face lightly freckled.

A multitude of questions raced through Christine's mind but she could not seem to select one. Now that the girl stood closer and in better lighting, she noticed she was older than Christine first guessed, no more than a few years her junior, fourteen perhaps, sixteen at the oldest. She had a pretty face, the plump, sweet face of a child but bore the full curves of a woman, as well endowed as Christine. Her hair was a waterfall of dark auburn ringlets, pulled back with a ribbon, and hanging to her waist. Her dress was of good quality material, better than what Christine would have expected, appearing new and embroidered at the bodice and sleeves.

Certainly she couldn't be the Phantom's daughter, as she originally supposed, though she could well believe with his lurid reputation that he had bastard children all over Paris. But she assumed he was in his twenties and too young to have fathered this girl.

"You're the one I spoke to yesterday?" Christine asked. "With the boy, by the lake?"

"Oui. Jacques is my brother," she said in heavily accented English. For the first time Christine realized that the Phantom's accent was much less pronounced, unlike the girl's, who was clearly a native of France. But he did say he was from Persia.

Christine bit her lip. "Does the Phantom keep you here as prisoners? Are you his slaves?"

There was little use to continue the pretense that she herself was not a prisoner, since this girl had unbarred her door to bring her a second meal.

The girl's eyes widened. She backed up a step in uncertainty.

"No, it's alright. Please don't be afraid." Christine moved closer, to the edge of the bed, worried she had frightened her by stating the truth and certain the girl was too anxious to admit it. "You don't have to tell me. I understand. Only, please, help me find a way out of these caves and I'll make certain that you and your brother leave this place too. I swear it. I'll take you back with me, to the world above - as God and his angels are my witness, I will -" though she wondered if a holy deity and his servants could hear her vow this far beneath the earth in the devil's cold playground…

The girl shook her head slowly from side to side, fear now distorting her face, her body trembling so hard the lid of the dish rattled against the platter. She swung around and ran from the room, leaving the door wide.

Christine gaped. What did that beast _do_ to her?

In dismay to lose a possible ally, Christine hurried to the entryway.

"Please don't go - I want to help you if you'll let me! Please - we can help one another!"

The girl never broke her frenzied pace down the corridor, clearly unafraid of falling into any morbid traps of death. Christine recalled that she, too, had run down many lit passageways without mishap. The lighted corridors must contain no traps ...

But surely one of them in this vast, infinite cave would provide a way to the world of sun and air and reason above. Determined to succeed in her second escape attempt, she hurried in the opposite direction and toward another torch-lit corridor she had never before entered...

**xXx**

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**A/N: For those eager for more, next chapter will have more of the Phantom's Pov…just a note in reading the recent reviews for this chapter- don't worry, everything you guys are confused about will be addressed soon... patience, my phriends. ;-) Keep the comments coming! Am loving them and to see where you guys are with this...  
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	22. Chapter 22

******A/N: Thank you for the reviews!**

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**XXII**

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He was in hell.

The hell of her laughter. The hell of her touch. The hell of her smile …

God, why had she _never_ _once smiled?_

He had noticed it immediately upon her arrival the first day, with the effusive little Giry. Then, and as he watched her work, and throughout every damn day thereafter, she had exhibited nothing but immense sadness. Here, trapped with him, he understood. Above, free with the others, it made no sense. The most enthusiasm in response to their merriment had been a faint tilt to her lips, while her eyes had remained haunted, greatly shadowed within and absent of all sparkle...

_What the hell had happened to her?_

He stared without seeing at the unfinished score before him…

…as he had been doing for the past ten damnable, wretched minutes.

Scowling, he snatched the paper from the organ and smashed it into a ball in his hand. He hurled the punished paper to the floor to join countless others. He could not concentrate and _would_ _not_ let her great misery or his petty weakness dampen his resolve. To do so would surely tear open the cold sutures that bound his heart. Sutures of hard indifference that long ago replaced the staples of stone fury. Soothing white hot hatred was the fiery balm that first helped him survive the agonizing emotion that once threatened to rip him asunder … until the dreams came in the darkest of night and the wound would burst open again to drench him in rivers of unquenchable pain.

Tears had also been in her terrified eyes. Muffled sobs of anguish that took her when she thought no one was near to hear them…

He could still hear them.

"_Curse you_ - I will not yield! _Do you hear? - I __**will not**__!"_

He glared up at the ceiling of rock as if he could see past it into heaven. But the home of angels was utterly remote from him, always had been so, and it threatened to grow even farther. Even if he must burn eternally in pitiless flames of fierce memory and harsh regret, he would not be persuaded to relinquish his plan – and all because of her damnable, frightened tears!

"M-maestro?"

Drawing his features into bland composure, he clung to what sanity he still possessed and turned on the bench, facing the girl. His attention dropped to the serving dish she held.

"You delivered her lunch?"

"Oui." She moved forward, trembling as she set the covered dish on one of many small tables that stood scattered about his lake chamber.

"Did she give you any difficulty?"

She stared at the stones, clearly upset. He sighed. She had been crying.

Impatient by her tears and lack of verbal response on the heel of his earlier tortured thoughts, he rose from the bench and moved down the steps to stand before her. Still, she did not look at him.

"Jolene ..."

At his soft, insistent query, her blue eyes snapped up to his. "She wanted me to help her escape. She threatened to take Jacques and me with her this time. But - but I don't want to go back up there! I want to stay here - _with you!_"

"Calm yourself," he ordered quietly. "I made a vow to you when I found you. I'll not go back on my word now."

Tears of gratitude filled her eyes, a smile breaking across her face. "Oh, merci, monsieur! Merci!"

She rushed forward, throwing her arms around his waist and pressing herself close, taking him by surprise. He could count on one hand the instances of such physical expressions since his tenure as the Phantom. She looked up in anxious uncertainty and pulled away. Her action had unsettled him, but he remained calm.

"Make your brother understand that he is not to unbar any more doors in the future."

She paled and nodded awkwardly. "He meant no harm. He does not like to see any living thing in pain – it is what brought us here that night ..."

"Yes." He gave a curt nod, loath to revisit that night's memory, and she continued.

"He saw her crying and unhappy through the hole in the wall before she knocked the candle out. He is too little to understand." She gave a faint shrug with her hands. "Even I do not understand why you want the woman here, since she does not wish it –"

"Enough of this," he quietly cut her off, turning on his heel toward the table with the covered dish. "It is not for you to understand, only to follow my instruction. Order him also not to peek through any more openings that lead into private chambers within the cave walls. I'll not tolerate such behavior."

"Oui, Maestro. Please do not be angry with him. Or me."

He sighed. "Where is the boy now?"

"Playing by the lake in the chamber near her room."

He frowned. It would be more difficult than he realized to keep such a curious child away from his prisoner. "Go now. Make certain he understands that he must remain distant from Mademoiselle Daae. She is a danger - to herself. To us. She cannot be trusted."

Jolene gave an awkward little curtsy and hurried away.

Alone again, he blew out an unsteady breath and closed his eyes in brief recollection.

It was not the little French maid that upset him.

Lifting the silver dome, he took note of the untouched breakfast and narrowed his eyes in wry acknowledgement to see the utensil missing.

"Ah, little songbird. If you still think to escape me you are gravely mistaken. You _will_ _sing_ for me …" He set the dome back over the plate and looked up, his smile hard as he stared past the closed portcullis into the adjoining dark cavern, his main canal to visit the world forbidden to him.

"… And _I_ _will_ have my triumph."

.

**xXx **

.

Christine trudged through the never-ending passage, her stride sluggish. With her feet again wet – had they ever been dry since she'd been brought to this miserable place? – she wished the hundredth time for her shoes.

This time, she had taken the branch to the left of the corridor. It seemed as if she had walked forever, all without coming to any opening, stairs, or gap in the rock that might offer a way out. Her body slightly shook from exhaustion and the need for nourishment. She'd not eaten since the previous morning, and she rethought her stratagem to force his hand. It had been a mistake to refuse breakfast. She could hardly make a successful escape if she was too weak to run and had to crawl to get above.

Ahead, the corridor turned _yet again_. Wearily putting her hand to the wall she moved around the bend with it…

And came to a surprised halt.

The Phantom stood there, facing her, his arms crossed over his chest, his shoes planted a short distance apart on the stones. Again he wore only shirtsleeves and black trousers. His cloak barely rested atop his wide shoulders as if it had been an afterthought.

Christine stared up at him in anxious shock. Clearly, he had been waiting for her.

"Did you enjoy your pre-dinner stroll?" he asked casually.

She blinked. "I ..." Her breathing staggered, it was the only word she could get out for a moment as she studied him in wary confusion. "You're not angry?"

"As I presume you've gathered from Jolene's earlier visit to your chambers, the corridors with torchlight contain no traps. They wend only through the inner chambers of my home. None of them offer passage to the world above. Pray continue, mademoiselle." He stepped aside and graciously motioned to the corridor behind him. "You are almost to your bedchamber."

"My ... _what?_"

His words compelled her to brush past, forgetting her temporary weariness and dread of having him catch her in a second failed escape attempt, and she soon let out a garbled cry of angry despair to see that he was correct. The corridor had taken her full circle, back to her prison cell!

Her stocking feet wet and cold, her plan of escape again brought to naught, she turned on him. "You are a horrid, horrid beast! And I demand that you let me go now!" She stamped her foot then winced at the feeling of needles prickling the numb appendage.

He regarded her with bored amusement at her childish display. But she was tired and hungry and filthy and didn't care how she behaved - not with him.

She struggled to pull herself together and thought of another tactic, information she never planned to share with anyone at the theater. Not with the dreadful trouble she was in and wished never to pull her friends further into. But below the earth it wouldn't matter. And it might serve to intimidate him.

"There is something I've not told you, something you should know. I have a close acquaintanceship with the patron of the opera house, the man in charge of running things. We are very good friends, the Vicomte de Chagny and I, and if you do not return me –"

He moved so swiftly she almost wasn't aware of his action until he'd backed her into the wall. With one hand on the rock by her head, he slipped his other hand around her throat.

"If you value his life and your own, you will _never again_ speak that name to me." His words came out in a low silken growl, his golden eyes crackling with fire.

She blinked at his rapidly changed demeanor, unable to form a suitable response. His long, cool fingers exerted little pressure to do harm but she felt the rage he restrained in every contracted muscle pressed against her.

"Y-you know the Vicomte? But…h-how could you know the Vicomte?"

Beneath his hand, he could feel her swallow hard. With his face so close to hers, he could see every individual lash and swirl of brown in her dark eyes. His fingertips brushed the side of her neck, his thumb the hollow of her throat as he gradually loosened his hold...

Suddenly he pushed his other hand away from the wall, whirling from her.

Christine shivered a little from the strange, slow caress and remained with her shoulder blades pressed against the stones, warily watching him. He kept his back to her and slowly looked toward the ceiling while clenching his hands in tight fists at his sides. He remained unmoving, his stiff shoulders relaxing gradually as did his fingers until they again hung loosely beside him. He again brought his head to stare in front of him.

Christine watched open-mouthed, his slow transformation to composure almost as chilling to witness as his rise to instant fury.

It was a moment before he spoke.

"The de Chagnys have been a thorn in my side for years. First the fool _Comte_ thought he could run the opera, filling the managers' heads with novice ideas, then he put his ignorant spawn in his place. If given the chance, he will ruin all I have worked so hard to build."

He turned back to her, his disposition, even _his_ _eyes_ now as inexpressive as his mask. "So you see why you must never again speak of that family to me."

She didn't move, only stared.

His smile came slight and forced as he motioned to a second covered dish he had set on the table. "I brought you dinner."

She found her voice. "I don't want it."

"You must eat. You have taken no sustenance all day."

"I told you, I don't want it!"

"Are you feeling ill again?"

"No." She cursed her stupidity, realizing it would have been far better for him to suppose she still felt poorly so he would just go and leave her alone.

"If you think to starve yourself, mademoiselle, such a method would be to your detriment and most certainly not benefit your escape. I will not stand by and idly watch you allow yourself to grow ill, thus complicating my future plans for you. If I must, I am not beyond tying you to a chair and forcing you to eat."

"You wouldn't," she gasped, frustrated that he had guessed her intent.

"Would I not?" He smiled cruelly. "Granted, you scarcely know me but if you persist in such idiocy, you will soon discover your answer."

She looked away, knowing he would do just as he said.

"You have been told the conditions of your release. Trying to starve yourself to gain my sympathy and surrender to your wishes is pointless. I have no personal feelings where you are concerned, _none_ _whatsoever_. You will find that I lack any morsel of compassion."

She pressed her lips together. "Will you please just go and leave me be?"

"As you wish." He turned back to the dishes, motioning to the new one. "I think you will find the meal to your liking: Succulent duckling drenched in a red wine sauce ..."

The aroma was making her stomach clench with hunger, and his description of what she refused to eat wasn't helping, as well he knew. She ground her teeth together at his obvious ploy.

He plucked up the dome of the dish and picked up the fork there. He held the utensil up for her to see, then tossed it to the table. "I noticed you collect these. An odd quirk, but if it helps to amuse yourself when you grow bored of staring at the walls or walking in circles I understand that the tines make fairly adequate chisels to scratch against stone. They are hardly worthy of anything else, save for the intention they were made."

God, he even had Erik's sarcastic bent! And she hated him for it. Hated him for all the traits he shared with her lost love. She narrowed her eyes at him. By his light tone and cutting words, he was letting her know that not only did he realize she had concealed the fork for a weapon, but that such an act was feeble and did not concern him in the slightest.

She wished she had the nerve to walk past him, grab her pillow and throw it at his condescending head! Better yet, the serving dish would give much more satisfactory results.

"And what would you suggest I do with my time since I _am_ being held prisoner here?"

He looked at her fully, his golden eyes searing into her. "Sing for me."

"Never."

He gave a curt nod and disappeared out the door.

She stared after him in disbelief, slowly shaking her head, then gave a little laugh devoid of humor. She walked to the bed and sat on its edge.

So, that was it. He had given her a choice, but if she did not do as he wished, her situation promised to be ten times worse. She would live the rest of her days inside this cave with nothing to do. No one would even know to look for her or _where_ to look for her.

Shutting her eyes, she reclined on her back, staring up at the canopy. She willed the time to pass then wondered why she should bother. A day, a week, a year – what did it matter? She was doomed to live in these caves for a lifetime…

Christine had always been taught that hell consisted of fire and brimstone as the minister and sexton warned. They were wrong. It was cold and damp and full of darkness and traps with deadly snakes. And the devil wore a black cloak and mask ... and possessed a haunting, stirring voice that could make the angels weep with envy.

As if her thoughts instigated his music, the organ's notes came to her through the corridor outside her open door.

Horrified that his possessive music reached all the way to her chamber and desperate to drown out the sound, she rushed to the door and closed it.

Still, the music reverberated around her, more distantly, but the chords still heard as if the rock acted like a sieve to allow the notes to filter into her room. She gave a helpless whimper, shutting her eyes and falling back with her shoulder blades against the door.

This time, his music was dark and full of despair, at the same time pleading, as if his heart bled through the notes ...

"No," she whispered and ran to the bed, burying her head beneath the pillow, desperate to block out the sound. "I will _not_ listen to this!"

Futile words. His music not only lingered in her ears, it filled every part of what little soul she had regained. She felt his anguish in the notes he played. Suffering twisted her heart until it too bled and the tears she cried were for him, even as she cursed him for doing this to her. Not even Erik's beautiful music had affected her so powerfully. He had played with grace and passion, wrapping her in waves of sweet pleasure. The darkness of this music ravaged her soul, tearing into her, demanding and harsh … then tender and pleading …

God, what sorcery was this? How could he do this to her, to so invade every particle of her being and manipulate her feelings to share what must compose the depth of his spirit?

No monster could play like that … and no man could express such exquisite, haunting notes without possessing a heart and one that felt deeply.

NO! He was a beast and _nothing_ else … _**nothing **__…_

Nothing.

His voice – that cruel, magnificent voice – united with his music and began to melt what remained of her defenses. Her only relief was that he could not witness what he did to her. He sang of hopelessness and darkness. Of terrible loss. Of a life without love and light. She understood his song so well, because he sang of the tragedy that had become her dark fate.

She could stand no more. Somehow, she had to put an end to his torture!

Rising from bed, she exited her chamber and took the torch-lit corridor that led to where the beast dwelt within his private lair.

Trembling with the invasive emotions he instilled in her, she walked to the second corridor and noted the glow of candles ahead. She felt powerless to resist the compulsion to enter, not exactly certain what she would do once she got there. At the threshold of his massive chamber room awash in candlelight she stopped.

The Phantom sat at the organ, as she had seen him before, now absent of his cloak.

Clenching her teeth, she moved forward, the strident chords of his music masking her steady approach.

The strong light of many candles caught the flash of silver as she walked past a table, and she turned her head to look…

Absent of its sheath, a dagger lay atop a pile of books, its blade shining.

**xXx**


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter XXIII**

.

Christine took the sleek weapon in her hand.

In horrified fascination she stared at the deadly blade that made a series of graceful curves from tip to hilt …so lethal…beautiful really, with a macabre sort of brilliance. The bottom of the silver hilt was engraved in an elaborate design of grapevines and swirls, and at its top, where her hand gripped it, the figurine of a lion reared up attacking a stallion, also standing on its hind legs in defense but no match for the great beast whose claws dug into its back and teeth were poised to sink into its neck.

A gentleman's showpiece…

But no gentleman dwelled within this underground chamber…

Only a monster with foul intent that made a cave his home.

She ran her fingertip lightly along the curved tip of the sharp edge to its point. A bead of blood appeared on the sensitive pad of her finger. She barely felt the sting.

Again, she lifted her eyes his way…

Powerful. Dark. Deadly.

Lucifer, seducing her with his decadent music …

Hades, trapping her in his freezing hell below the earth.

A devil who gave no mercy, he deserved no mercy.

There was only one way to find escape. She had tried everything and failed. There remained only one way...

Her pulse raced in grim anticipation as she stealthily approached and took one set of three stairs that flanked the dais. His chords reverberated around the chamber, dark and despondent, absent of all hope.

Unaware of the threat she presented, the Phantom continued to play, lost in his music, his eyes closed in deep emotion behind the mask. Her throat felt parched and tight as she moved up behind him. She tried to control her breathing, coming more panicked with each careful step she took. Her hand that clutched the dagger lifted without her barely realizing she'd done so, to the level of her eyes.

Every part of Christine trembled as she stared at the back of his glossy, raven hair and tried to move, to force herself to lunge forward and bury the razor point of the fatal weapon between the shoulder blades of his broad back…to kill the beast and regain her freedom…unlike the stallion, she would triumph over the lion; or in her case, the panther, dark creature of the night...

He suddenly took his hands from the keys and straightened…

while her heart froze…

…and resumed its mad, painful beating as her abductor slowly turned and saw her standing less than three feet behind.

His mouth pressed into a hard line as he stood to his feet. His every motion fluid and deliberate, he closed the scant distance between them.

Dreading what would come next she slowly looked up into his eyes.

Beyond the black mask, a sheen of moisture made them shimmer a vivid golden in the candlelight. Never had she seen such anguish in any person's eyes as she now saw in his…

Except in her own.

Shaken, she took a slight step backward.

She could not do this. Was foolish to think she could! Trembling head to foot, she lowered her arm to her side. Her body felt frozen to the rock, would not obey her mind's demand to flee for protection from his certain wrath …

He reached out, his movement unhurried, and grabbed her hand with the dagger, wrapping his long, cool fingers around her quivering fist.

She inhaled sharply in fright then let out a breath of confusion when he did not wrest the weapon from her as she expected. Taking a slow step, he brought her hand up with the same methodical pace until the point of the blade rested against the center of his chest.

"Do it," he rasped, his features taut with despair. A tear rolled from beneath his mask. "Spear the heart of the beast as you wish to! End it now…"

She gasped at his low, shocking words. Her heart twisted in pity while wondering what horrors he must have lived to invite his own death. His throat worked hard as he staunched some nameless, powerful emotion. The hopelessness in his eyes brought tears to her own. She could not move, could not speak or think...

His fingers crushed hers against the dagger's handle as he forced her to press inward.

Her eyes and mouth opened wide in horror as she watched the point of the blade pierce his skin. A trickle of blood seeped down staining his pale flesh and coloring the sparse hair in its path crimson.

"My God – **NO!**"

Christine wildly pushed against his shoulder with her free hand, at the same time struggling to pull the blade away without cutting either of them.

_"Stop it,"_ she pleaded in a sob when his hold did not diminish, as if he would not heed her wishes. In her weakened state she could do little to challenge his greater strength and force him to yield. The tears she had held back now freely rolled down her cheeks. "_Don't do this! Please -_ _**I BEG of you - don't do this!"**_

Suddenly, he released her hand. She whirled aside and with no thought but to get rid of the horrible thing she flung the weapon baptized in his blood as far as she could throw it, watching with grim satisfaction as it splashed into the middle of the lake.

He also watched the dagger fly into the water, his features without expression, then looked back at her. Confusion narrowed his eyes as she wiped the tears that still coursed down her numb cheeks. They stood apart from one another and stared.

She glanced down at his chest. The relief that the cut he had forced her to inflict looked no more than superficial came so strongly she almost hurled herself into his arms …

Her heart racing with the shock of such an impulse, she quickly retreated a step.

"Stay back!"

She clutched her head with both hands, grabbing handfuls of her wild, loose hair. God, what _was_ _wrong_ with her? In feeling the give of the blade pierce his skin and seeing the blood he had forced her to shed – _she had suffered more than he!_

Why should she care for this tyrant's welfare? This merciless devil – her jailer. Why should she care if he lived or died, and feel such a draining, blessed relief that he still stood so tall and powerful before her …?

The music! It was his possessive music. It confused her mind. Made her feel his pain. Made her feel unwanted feelings to be near. To be with him. To _hold_ him. But – that made no sense! The music was no longer playing when she begged him to stop – was not playing now – and she knew in a blinding flash of revelation –

She could not bear the thought of him dead.

_**"Stay away from me!"**_ she fiercely commanded, though he had yet to move.

He stood silent and motionless, hardly blinking as she backed from him another two steps. Her gaze was frantic as she took in his inscrutable expression – then whirled around and took the stairs down to the bank at a mad run …

Past the bright candelabras of his living tomb …

Through the endless corridors of his devil's maze …

To the prison chamber that was to become her home –

But no matter how fast or how far she ran she could not escape the depths of sorrow that had first shimmered within his haunting, golden eyes.

.

**xXx**

.

Over the next three days, the Phantom gave Christine a wide berth, staying far from her and her chamber.

Enmeshed in his dark music, in the pain of his past, in the bleakness of their current situation – he had shown her a part of himself he'd sworn never to reveal. His accursed emotions had been boiling too near the surface to suppress, and so, apparently, had hers.

He had not been surprised that she had come to this room. She had proven that she was unafraid to probe the passages and the corridor in front of her chamber led directly to his.

Nor had he been surprised to turn and see her holding his dagger. She had tried before to conceal a weapon from his knowledge.

And he certainly wasn't surprised that she wished to kill him. He had given her little reason to do less.

What had stunned him beyond comprehension was the remorse and panic in her horrified eyes when he attempted to help her follow through with her plan.

He had thought she would be relieved to kill the monster she so often called him, with no inkling of just how beastly he truly was. The hopelessness that had raged inside his heart in that moment had not allowed him to think beyond his despair of the life lost to him and the horrors he had wrought in Persia that truly shaped him into a monster. Death had seemed preferable and during that one brief moment as he brought her hand with the dagger to his chest, he wearied of all of it and no longer cared…

That discord of turbulent emotion at last departed, now he did.

To hear her perform his opera was his greatest and last desire, all he had left to live for. And he _would_ hear her sing. To exact revenge on his enemies he had planned to keep her with him and make her into the next diva. He had done all he could to compel her to sing. He still held hope that he would succeed within the next few weeks – he _must succeed _if the opera was to commence on the time schedule he had planned. Nor could he watch what was left of her spirit slowly wither and die…

If she did not fade away from starvation first.

The pen snapped, red ink staining his fingertips like blood. With a curse he threw the quill down and pushed his sketch of a costume away, wiping his hand on a cloth.

He knew she had nibbled at the bread, little good that did. He scrutinized each full platter Jolene brought back. If his stubborn captive sampled anything else, it wasn't evident, the food always appearing untouched. She couldn't continue in this vein for long. He knew, from Persia, that a person could survive without food for weeks, but damned if he would allow her infantile foolishness to go on another day!

A step on the stones had him look behind him. Jolene entered, carrying a silver domed dish. He distantly watched her set it down and looked back at his unfinished sketch. Her steps soon departed. Concentration also fled…

His attention went back to the serving dish.

_Bloody hell!_

He leapt up from his chair, tossing the ink-stained cloth to the ground. In three strides he was at the table and snatched up the dome.

He stared at the full portions on the platter, his rage building. With a growl, he threw the cover to the stones, turned on his heel and stormed out of the lake room.

It took him less than half the time to reach her bedchamber.

He threw open the door, sending it crashing into the wall. Her newest serving dish also went untouched. The shape huddled beneath the velvet coverlet attested to her whereabouts.

"Get out of that bed this instant and eat what was brought you or so help me I will not refrain from carrying out my threat of three nights ago," he warned in a deep voice that shook from his anger. When she made no move to comply or even acknowledge his presence he strode to the side of the bed and whipped the coverlet from over her mussed mahogany curls, snapping it from her body.

What he saw unnerved him.

She lay on her side, confined in her maid's uniform and he wondered if she ever took the damned thing off, but that wasn't what made his stomach clench and acid fear eat his gut. A heavy sheen of sweat beaded her brow, her skin pasty, her cheeks highly flushed. Her eyes remained closed and he knew she wasn't feigning sleep.

"Damn you, what have you done to yourself now?" he whispered, laying a gentle palm to her forehead. It burned like fire even while she shivered as if cold.

He experienced a rush of guilt to keep her shoes from her to discourage any attempt of escape. He should have returned them the first time she tried it and failed, once she learned of his traps firsthand. That had been the sole reason he had kept her barred within her chamber; to protect the little fool. There was no escape to the world above, except through his private quarters. His added precaution to keep her in her stocking feet had been a vain stratagem when he considered her wretched stubbornness – and briefly he closed his eyes. The regret lasted only until the memory returned, and he tightened his mouth into a thin line of resolve.

He had provided for her every need! She had a voice and could have told Jolene to heat water for a bath to dispel any chill. She could have changed into fresh, warmer clothing.

A glance around the room told him the small trunk he'd ordered Jacques and Jolene to bring three days ago was absent and he scowled. Where the hell was it? Another glance told him Christine had not removed her wet stockings. He wondered if the fool girl ever removed them. And surely her refusal of adequate sustenance had only aided what infirmity now plagued her body.

Damn the little hellion! She was more trouble than she was worth!

Even as the disparaging thought rushed through his mind he swiftly rejected it, a wave of unwelcome compassion briefly chasing away his anger.

He was the true fool.

Giving no heed to the consequences of his next act, he lifted her from the high, draped bed that had belonged to the set of _Zémire et Azor, _a fairy tale opera involving a beast and a beauty …

… similar to the one he now carried to his private lair.

.

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: Merci beaucoup for the many reviews! :) ****(in answer to the questions- angst: great sorrow/anxiety/remorse ... sequel to Treasure - er, not sure, hopefully soon. :))****  
**


	24. Chapter 24

**A/N: Thank you for your reviews! Some chapters are short and some chapters like the last one and this take more out of me - to write and make it all pan out as believable - and so they take more free time to write than others do. ****That said, your comments really encourage me as I write this and make me want to keep writing - (and I would rather inspire you to do the same than to quit! So no more talk of that, eh? ;-)).**

**And now …**

* * *

**Chapter XXIV**

.

"JOLENE!"

The Phantom's deep voice thundered through the caverns for the third time as he swiftly carried his unconscious prisoner to his chamber rooms.

"Damn your hide, you useless girl! Where the hell are you?"

With no sign of the little French maid or even the boy who usually was underfoot, the Phantom cursed a string of vicious profanities and swept into his home, up the stairs and to the back chamber that held his wide bed. Managing to pull the coverlet down with Christine in his arms, he carefully laid her on the cool sheeting.

She failed to stir; her eyelids did not once flicker.

"Are you trying to incite my wrath and earn my everlasting contempt for your idiocy?" he asked quietly. Again he pressed his fingers to her forehead then the backs of them to her cheek, hoping he'd been wrong, that it wasn't as bad as he feared …

Her skin seared his flesh.

Grimacing, he softly brushed the damp curls from her sweat-soaked brow with his fingertips. "Damn you for doing this to yourself … to me … for attempting to destroy all I have planned for our future together at the Opera …"

She moaned faintly at his touch.

He withdrew his hand and shut his eyes and heart to the surge of raw emotion at the sight of her being ill. _God, she could not be ill!_

"I already despise you…" He kept his voice low and gentle, not wishing her to awaken. "Is that not enough? Must you demand more from me?"

Torn, he walked a short distance away, hesitated, looked back at her, then paced some more. Wiping a shaky hand down the back of his head, he stopped with his back to her and closed his eyes.

No. Hate was too strong a word. It was her foolishness this week that had provoked his utter disgust with her behavior. As for the girl in his bed, he simply did not care …

Another moan had him look her way. He hesitated at the anguish that pierced her voice then again moved toward her.

"Christine?" The quiet sound of her name falling from his tongue wrenched something deep inside the hollow area of his chest, more painful than pleasant, and sadistic fool that he was he longed to hear it again. _"Christine …"_

She began to shiver uncontrollably. He observed her in dismay. How long had she been like this?

He darted another impatient look toward the entrance for the idiot maid who was still absent. Where in blazes _was_ that girl! Had she not heard his summons? She had not told him she was going into the city, so she must be somewhere within these accursed dank walls. But now she _would_ need to go, and soon … he could not wait for dusk to fall to make the trip himself.

His attention swung back to his caged songbird. Her face contorted as if she might cry. Within moments, her features again smoothed and he hoped whatever brief pain she experienced had passed.

He took in her slight body - too damn slight - did the stubborn little chit never eat before she came to his dark catacombs either? He had to get nourishment in her soon and the essential medicine as well…Jolene must procure what was needed from above…if the damned girl ever arrived. How many minutes had passed? Five? Ten? Too damn many, that was certain!

His gaze lowered to the stockings covering Christine's small feet. Gingerly he ran the pads of his fingers along the bottom of one to find it damp and chill as ice.

Bloody hell! What was the little fool trying to do? Catch pneumonia on top of starving herself to death?

Briefly he closed his eyes at the knowledge that he must undertake the task himself. There was no choice. He could not wait for an absent maid who might never show.

With his jaw clenched the Phantom lowered himself to sit at the edge of the mattress. He took a deep breath, shutting out all emotion as he had learned to do long years ago, then slipped his hands beneath the hem of her skirt. He cursed them for how they shook and tried not to watch as the material unavoidably rode higher with his movements. The first touch of her satin thigh against his fingers almost undid him. He doubly cursed the mad leap his heart made.

He took another steadying breath, holding it then slowly releasing...

"You mean nothing to me," he whispered, tucking his fingertips around the edge of the stocking and pulling it down her slender leg. He brought the coarse covering over her slim ankle and her ice cold toes. He grimaced, remembering the terrified lunge his heart made when he'd seen her recklessly run into the dark, wet tunnel with his trap of vipers…

_"Nothing,"_ he repeated firmly.

He reached for the black twin, noting how hot and damp her skin felt as his fingertips traced the scratchy wool down her soft leg, the skin slightly reddened as if from a faint rash in an adverse reaction to the material. Hell, did they have nothing better to clothe the help with than this inferior garbage?

Her closed lashes fluttered, and he paused to watch. She moved her head on the pillow, softly shaking it. Her upper body squirmed to the side for several seconds then she rolled to her back and again lay still.

Her shallow, even breaths testified that she continued to sleep...

Once more he resumed pulling the wretched stocking from her leg.

In her delirium she could not possibly hear or understand anything he said. The need to speak what clawed at his soul since the morning she entered the theater for her audition overpowered all else:

"The night I rode away I wanted to kill you for what you'd done," he whispered softly, "what you said, how damnably you had changed - _into one of_ _them,"_ he hissed. "Did you and your precious boy have a good laugh over the poor inept fool you tricked … _Did you, Christine? _Was his profession of adoration a mere trophy for your damned vanity?"

His fingers tightened convulsively beneath her knee. She gave a little moan.

"Were you relieved to learn the beast was dead? Did it make your decision easier to go through with? Or did you even know of his demise…?" His eyes fell shut and his hands relaxed, remaining motionless around her leg as his mind relentlessly slipped back to those dark days.

"Tell me … how long did you wait before you went to be with the blasted Vicomte? _How long, Christine…?_"

He gritted his teeth against the old pain, relying on the welcome sting of fury that served to steady him until it, too, faded into calm indifference. He pulled the stocking the rest of the way down to join its discarded mate on the stones.

"I have hated you as fiercely as I once loved you…" he continued his whispered confession, looking at her small, punished feet. He took an icy one between his palms and slowly rubbed the chilled flesh to warm it. "…hated you with a passion equal to the love I felt for you, fool that I was to fall under the spell of your charm …"

He gave a humorless, short laugh and held her foot still, cupped in his large hands a moment before continuing his gentle massage. "Not that you would care, but a man found my bleeding body in a gully and tended me. God knows why or even how I survived. I went with him, to his homeland of Persia…."

He broke off, unable to speak of that terrible year; but nowhere could it amount to the agony of her blinding betrayal. He had almost died. When he recovered and learned the truth, he had wanted to die…

"Later I came to France, made a home within these caves. Became the dreaded Phantom and earned an equally fearsome reputation." He narrowed his eyes on her still face. "I _killed_ that man you knew, Christine - killed him as surely as if I had driven a dagger through his pathetic, yearning heart and cut it from his miserable body … And I plotted. And I waited. And I prayed for this day… Perhaps God does exist as you tried to convince me. Perhaps it was the hand of Fate that granted my wish." His smile was a grimace, cold and triumphant. "Perhaps it was more…"

He lowered her foot and reached for the other.

"Did your precious boy speak of the letter the day he received it, Christine? As swiftly as you arrived, your decision must have been immediate. Tell me, did it pain him when his fiancée chose to leave England to indulge in a career at the Opera?" he sneered softly and stopped rubbing her foot though he did not let go. "No more than it would pain him to know that I wrote the letter, surely?" His laugh came vicious and low. "It was a gamble but you came, and now he has lost and I have won."

But she would no longer sing. Had the pompous simpleton discouraged her from it?

"You will never marry him, Christine - _**never!**_" He began to rub her warmed flesh again, more firmly, his whisper now fierce. "You _**will**_ sing - you _**will **_marry me - forced to **_chain_ _your_**_** soul**_ to the ruthless monster you so despise, who cares _nothing_ for you. You will live out your days and dwell beneath the earth in darkness - _**with**_ _**me**_, though you will never know it. And I will have my absolute revenge…"

She gave a soft groan. _"Erik…"_

He froze. Slowly looked up.

She was dreaming.

"_Yes," _she whispered, "_ I __always __will…_"Her brow grew troubled and she twisted her body again, writhing on the sheet._ "No…_ _go_ _away!_ _God, no_… please - _you're_ _lying_ … - oh, God- **NOOO!"**

He winced at her bloodcurdling cry. Feverish slumber created nightmares of the cruelest sort. How well he knew. Sounds that grew eerily enhanced, and sounds that did not exist… Hallucinations obliterating stark reality and lending to a private hell, where guilt and fear became the constant tormentors of one's soul. Awake, asleep, it failed to matter. The nightmares always lingered…

He lowered her foot to the bed and stood, looking down at her. "It's no less than you deserve," he rasped, weak emotion making his voice waver and his eyes moist. He cursed any lapse of pity for her and pulled the coverlet above her waist…

…stopping midway in horror at the sight of a bruise.

In the stronger candlelight, this close and with her thick hair out of the way, it was easy to discern. Yellow-brown and faded. It had been there for some time. More than a week. Her badly fitted chemise and shift had twisted around her body as she writhed in sleep, revealing the top of her slim shoulder and the faint markings of an old bruise on her pale skin.

_Brui__**ses**__._ In the shape of a large hand. Fingers …

He had never grabbed her there.

White hot fury blurred his vision - but not so much that he did not fail to notice another faded mark that disappeared beneath her neckline near her cleavage. Good God! Were there bruises all over her body? Had someone beaten her? _Dared_ to harm his little angel?

_**Who would do such a thing!**_

An icy stillness filtered through his veins, chilling his blood, as the answer came swift and sharp. Of course. The wretched fool in whose house she once lived, at whose table she had supped, in whose bed she had slept …

Damn it, no! He no longer cared. _He would not let himself care…_

Grimly he looked at her.

But _for this_ the boy would die.

.

**xXx**

.

The walls had come alive.

They breathed ... hissing at her. And the voices - so many. Too many…soft then louder … soft again…echoing strangely, always echoing…

Eyes watched her from within the walls … eyes glowing golden … eyes burning blue … all around …

and around …

and around …

the walls were spinning…

She closed her eyes in fear.

The touch of hands … large, cool hands …gentle hands…she did not want the hands to leave. They felt so good against her burning skin… A soothing voice, a whisper … lyrical, beautiful… spouting hateful words that made her want to cry.

Erik was there. He called out to her. Told her he loved her. Told her he hated her. Wished to punish her … marry her - _God, yes, yes!_ - she reached blindly for the distant, shadowy image of him. He turned his back to her and dissolved … once more to become Henri's hateful leer -

_"He's dead."_

**No!**

Her eyes flew open. "Erik…" she rasped.

"Mademoiselle…?"

An angel's face in a halo of dark red curls abruptly entered her line of vision, startling her. Anxious blue eyes, tears making them glisten…

"You are awake. He will be pleased."

Not an angel. The girl by the lake. Candles flickered all around. Silk against her skin.

"Wh-where am I?"

"In the master's bedchamber."

The master …

_Phantom!_

Christine tried to sit up but a small, gentle hand pushed her shoulder. "You must rest. You're very ill."

"Ill?" She could put no more words together, could not decipher what was real, what was false …. She meekly laid back down and closed her eyes.

Bitterness touched her lips, entered her mouth, slid down her throat. She turned away.

She felt herself moved, jostled around … go away - please go away! … Wetness poured over her skin … Pain! White hot and blinding - she screamed. Her back was on fire! Her eyes flew open - light - so much light! Too much! The large hand again … firm but gentle … her eyes closed … the darkness embraced …

Images faded, appeared, faded again. Dark images. Bright images… Shapes…Shadows…the hissing…God, please make the hissing stop!

Time lapsed… grew…thickened…the voices rose and fell, undulating all around her…all around and around …whispers…dark and fierce …whispers…soft and meek…both terrified.

_"You little fool! Why did you not give her the trunk as I commanded!"_

_"I'm sorry, Maestro. She told me to take it away…"_

_"I told you not to listen to a thing she says!"_

Listen … _listen _…

She did not want to listen.

She tried to speak, to tell the voices to stop ... her mind blissfully slipped back into nothingness…

Voices woke her again. Softer voices. She groaned, wishing them away as well…

"No. Do not speak. Drink this."

The deep voice again. A man's voice. She knew that voice. Her head was lifted, the hand large and cool at her nape. So nice. She wished to turn her burning face into that hand. A container slid against her mouth. The taste at her lips was bitter. She remembered it. Did not like it. Tried to push it away. The hand was insistent. The liquid slid down her throat, warm. Potent …

She felt her head lowered back to the pillow, felt the lassitude seep into her bones again, pulling her downward, always downward…

It was the silence that woke her. After the endless voices and hissing, the absence of sound startled her awake.

Christine slowly opened her eyes, her body no longer feeling as if it might melt away from her bones. She felt extremely weak and dizzy, but her skin no longer prickled and again felt like her own, cool to the touch.

What had happened to her?

Had he drugged her again?

The heaviness of her skirt was gone and with alarm she realized she lay in her loose shift, damp and clinging to her skin. She carefully sat up, heard the rustle of silk fall away and glanced down at the maroon sheet.

This was not her bed. This was not her prison chamber.

This room was even larger with candles that stood in holders in every direction. An opening led out to another wide room filled with more candles and she could hear and see part of the green lake that softly lapped against the rock shore. She glimpsed part of a closed iron gate beyond that. Trunks of different sizes lined the walls of this chamber. A tall gold statue of some creature that looked half woman, half serpent presided nearby. The canopied bed was even bigger than the one she'd been given, the furnishings of deep maroon silk and a brown so dark it was almost black.

She shivered a little, in no doubt where she was. The room resonated his persona, and his scent clung to the sheets.

She heard footsteps approach and stared out into the bigger room, anxiously wondering what to do next.

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: Now that the wildcat is out of the bag - of course it's Erik! You didn't think I'd string you along for ten chapters and then throw someone else at you, did you ? ;-) - More of his past four years will be given over chapters, and if it's not entirely clear why he's been so cruel or keeping his identity from her, it will be as you read on. But now I can finally write without giving too much away! Most of you knew right off it was him, but some of you weren't sure. So as not to spoil it for anyone, I said nothing…now I have to say how much I have LOVED writing the irony of this - Christine desperate to get away from the beastly Phantom - the same man that throughout her life she loves and wants to be with the most! lol (rubs hands in mad glee for all I have planned)… also, I based her feverish delirium on what I experienced as a child and **_**still**_** remember, whispering voices, seeing things not there -even hearing a waterfall painting that hung near me come to life. Very creepy. Only here, Christine had a lake near so it made more sense… please comment and let me know what you thought of all or any of it. Thanks. :)**


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews and faves - you guys are wonderful! :) And thanks to all reading this and giving it a chance - I know there is much better out there. I will take your suggestions into consideration. And yes, I'm thinking to bring Raoul into this sooner than originally planned…we shall see. ;-) Oh- and I did change my name. I've used honeyphan for more than six years and grew tired of it so am changing it where I can. *shrugs***

* * *

**Chapter XXV**

.

The little boy by the lake materialized in the entrance. He broke into a wide smile upon seeing her sitting up and aware.

Momentarily startled, Christine stared back at the dark haired child. She instinctively pulled the sheet higher though she now saw he was younger than she first thought and could be no more than six.

"Hello," she said cautiously. "You must be Jacques."

He turned on his heel and darted away.

"Wait!" she called in frustration leaning toward where he disappeared. The action did not help minimize her lightheadedness and she clutched one hand to the mattress.

Why was it the children _ran_ from her?

Within less time than it took to gather her wits, the boy returned, again smiling…

…and leading the Phantom by the hand.

Christine's eyes widened. Unblinking, she could only gape. The sight of her formidable abductor quietly led by a small child - who showed no terror to be with the masked man who towered over him a considerable distance - stunned her beyond all power of thought and robbed her of any attempt at speech.

The Phantom looked at her a breathless moment, for he'd stolen her ability to exhale too, then turned toward the boy, bending his knees and gracefully lowering his great height so the child could see his face. "Go play with your soldiers." He spoke low, so that Christine could barely hear, enunciating each word in command.

The boy nodded, swung another enthusiastic smile her way, and disappeared.

The Phantom rose and faced Christine. For a moment they only stared at one another, his expression inscrutable, her eyes wary.

Again he was dressed for leisure wearing only shirtsleeves and trousers as appeared to be his custom when inhabiting his home. An unbelted robe of black velvet carelessly hung from wide shoulders and swirled about his frame as his cloak had done. Rather than serve to conceal, it also pronounced his masculinity, almost an entity unto itself, a living, breathing presence in the room. The knowledge that it was _his_ room made the awkwardness that much more intense.

"How do you feel?"

She gave a little shrug. "Is he…" A strange tightness in her throat made the words difficult to force out. "…is he your son?"

Her nerves were almost frayed by the time he finally answered.

"In a sense."

_In a sense?_ What the hell was that supposed to mean? She frowned at him.

"I take care of him."

"And the girl?" The clipped words were out before she could restrain them.

His brow shot up, his lips twisting in a wry smile. "I take care of her too."

Recalling Meg's lively recounting of the Phantom's nocturnal exploits in vacant corridors, she pressed her lips together, deciding she would rather not know what _that_ entailed and glanced down at the sheet covering her barely clothed body. Again she was reminded of her own prickly situation.

"Why did you bring me to your bed?"

"You do not remember?"

"If I remembered, I wouldn't ask." She could only recall snatches of bizarre moments that seemed like one long, twisting nightmare. "And…" She swallowed hard. "Where is my uniform?"

"I burned it."

"You WHAT?" Her eyes flew as wide as they would go.

He steadily advanced toward her. She shrank back against the headboard with the same slow measure though she wasn't completely sure that it was only fright that should cause her heart to skip so strangely within her breast.

"I. Burned it."

"You're serious," she whispered in disbelief. "You really _did_ burn it."

"Yes."

She blinked rapidly, trying to think. "You - you had no right! I - you …" Flustered in the face of his disturbing equanimity, she groped for words. "Why did you remove it to begin with? What reason could you have possibly had ..." The blood rushed from her face and horror seized her heart.

"My God! You _didn't _…"

His eyes and mouth narrowed in disgust. "No, I did not. You suffered from a high fever. Jolene tended you."

Jolene. The girl. The _petite_ girl who looked as if a strong wind might blow her to the other side of the city…

Christine vaguely remembered Jolene's small hands and birdlike wrists with skinny arms. Christine was strong but it had taken her and Berta both to help Elizabeth out of her gown when she was bedridden. Barely conscious, she had been a dead weight.

"_Jolene_ removed my outfit. She must possess the strength of ten men." She would have had to roll her over to reach the tiny buttons on the skirt and removing it would have been no easy maneuver. Nor could she imagine that pulling the chemise over her head would have given less trouble.

His lips twitched at her gross exaggeration. "She is not weak."

"You do not actually expect me to believe…"

"If it will cease your tiresome dramatics, yes, I removed your clothing. It was necessary. You were burning with fever and Jolene needed to sponge your body down with water."

Her face bloomed with heat at his forthright words in so intimate a setting. He did not appear the least bit daunted. She looked away from him, at a sudden loss for words.

His gaze remained fixed on her.

"The bruises. How did you get them?"

His question came low and soft, forced as if he did not wish to ask it, but a slight ring of steel edged his tone as if he was determined to obtain an answer.

Her heart skipped a beat in dread recollection, but she evaded the brief memory and looked up at him through narrowed eyes.

"I was thrown against a wall of rock."

"To save you from a worse fate, yes, I recall it well. I speak of the old bruises. The ones … elsewhere."

Her face heated with mortification. He admitted to removing her clothing; he would have seen the remnants of bruises above her shift.

"I fell."

She lowered her gaze …

…would tell him nothing.

The ensuing silence made her fidget …

… anxious … breathless …

What could he possibly be thinking to remain silent for so long?

"Were you attacked?"

She winced at his harsh, blunt words. Unexpected…intrusive and demanding, like their master…

Too frail of mind and body, this time with nowhere to run to escape the horrific memory that still haunted fitful slumber - and now returned in the awareness of day with a force that blinded and mocked any further attempts at desperate evasion - she relived the pain of Henri's brutal hands and revolting mouth violating her in places where only her lover's hands and lips had ever been …

Her dead lover. His body riddled with bullets… He could not protect her then, could not protect her now. Never again could make her world right … Erik had deprived her … Henri had despoiled her … The blithe girl who had been Christine would never again be whole … she might as well be dead…left as nothing but a fragile shell…to crumble and escape back into the eternal void of blessed emptiness….

The Phantom quietly swore. In an instant, her face had gone from flushed and rosy with indignation to pale as parchment with despair. The change came so swift and sudden, it left him stunned. Her body began visibly to tremble. Without seeming to realize she did so, she brought the sheet tightly around herself and softly began to rock back and forth while her large, haunted eyes stared vacantly ahead at the cave wall.

_Dear God! Had she been …_

He squeezed his hands into fists until nails bit flesh and forced himself to remain distant, motionless.

"Mademoiselle."

She did not look at him…

Her large eyes slowly lowered to the sheet covering her knees as if she were in a trance.

"Mademoiselle Daae!"

Her breathing grew labored…

Her eyes widened with horror as she seemed to relive some terrifying experience then they glassed over, vacant, as she drew deeply into herself...

_"Christine…"_

The quiet sound of her name rolling off his tongue wafted over her, soft and gentle, a silken breeze flowing through the cracks of her beleaguered mind, brushing against her wounded heart…

She stopped rocking. Grew very still. Blinked...

He spoke her name again, this time a tremulous whisper. Softly it shook her, pulling her back. With a sluggish lift of her head she looked up, past the impenetrable black mask and into steady golden eyes. Eyes that no longer seemed cold and distant but glowed with furious concern. The tremors came more strongly. Tears clouded her vision.

"He hurt me," she said in a whisper-soft childlike voice, words she'd never been able to utter. Silent and slow, the tears streamed down her face. "Why did he hurt me like that?"

The Phantom viciously swore a second time. In a few long strides he was sitting on the bed and pulling her close to him. She pressed her cheek against his warm, solid chest. The sheet fell between them but it failed to matter. His arms felt secure around her body, his hands firm against her back as he held her protectively to him …

And Christine clung to this man.

God, it made no sense! But then nothing did or ever had. Exactly as what occurred on the first night in his caverns, when he rescued her from sudden darkness, Christine again found safety in her abductor's embrace. She clung to his shirt, then his shoulders as her trembling increased and weeping came in earnest…deep weeping she felt powerless to control and did not wish to try.

All the tears she cried in England had sprung from immediate horror and pain. These tears she now shed - of anger, of regret, of guilt and heart crushing anguish - had festered inside for years, building up behind a dam of forced restraint with each tragic occurrence. Now they raked through her soul as they burst from the very depths of their prison.

Henri had abused her body, but the loss of Erik had destroyed every facet of her being. She was no longer sure for which adversity she cried most, or even which man she had spoken of – Erik had hurt her too, by leaving. _No one_ had been able to help her release all the pain that stemmed from his death. Not Berta. Not Raoul. Not Arabella. The hollow, chill ache was always there as a reminder of her eternal emptiness. But here, in the arms of this merciless Phantom who had abducted her and kept her his captive – at last she was able to release those deepest layers of her greatest sorrow and again find warmth …

Which made no sense at all.

A turbulence of feeling swept through him as he held her, his anger and vengeance toward the wretched Vicomte building with every tear she shed upon his neck…His horror at what must have happened to her intensifying with every desperate clutch of her small hands upon his shoulders…his iron wall of defense he had built for four damned solid years pummeled against with every heartrending sob and vulnerable gasp near his ear…

This was a mistake. God, he _knew_ it was a mistake. Not even one week in her company and that protective wall threatened to be blown to oblivion! He could _not_ let her affect him – _he was indifferent to her, damn it_ – he would not again give her opportunity to destroy him with her sweet lips and false tongue. But with her soft curves pressed so close, her body warm and clothed in nothing but her damp shift, his heart was not the only part of his body so strongly affected. He cursed the tightening in his loins and the heat singeing his blood…

His mind played unwitting host to memory, to other occasions that haunted and coerced. Of the tortured nights and provocative dreams of being one with her, impossible to eliminate, in slumber the mind vulnerable to desire and mocking all attempts at apathy. Dreams were phantasmal, snippets of bright illusion that faded away to dark loneliness once again. But this, _this_ was all too real, a sensual weapon to undo every one of his carefully contrived plans…God, to feel her in his arms again, to feel her _holding him_…it was bliss and it was hell but surely it was the closest he would ever come to heaven.

He was a fool not to pull away from the torture she innocently inflicted but could not find it within himself to abandon Christine in this broken state, when she so greatly needed someone to hold her. He knew anyone would fill that spot, if someone else were available - since it was the villain who once drugged and abducted her and the beast she so strongly hated that she now clung to with such desperation.

Despite all better judgment he tightened his arms around her slight form and buried his face in her hair as she continued to drench his chest with her tears. She was so damned fragile. He did not wish for the details of what happened – did not think he could bear to hear such foul words uttered – that would surely shatter every hard won obstacle of resistance. But God how he wanted to rekindle her spirit! To see the enthusiastic sparkle that once had been a permanent fixture in her lively eyes, all of it absent since her arrival to the Opera. He smoothed his hand down the back of her head and the riotous curls that still felt like long springy coils of raw silk…

Damn it! NO! This was not part of the plan, and he reminded himself as he had so many times since she'd come here why such a plan was necessary…

Christine felt the Phantom tense and begin to pull away. Nervously she tightened her hold on him, drawing her arms up around his neck. In her present state of emptied mind and weakened body she felt more anxious to be without his company than for him to be near. She _wanted_ him near. He felt … safe, perhaps the most bizarre paradox of this entire experience.

"Please, monsieur," she whispered hoarsely over little hiccups of sobs, "will you sing to me?"

Her meek, quiet words startled him into immobility. Her warm breath and the innocent brush of her lips against his neck as she spoke them aroused his blood. He fought the powerful urge to draw her onto his lap and taste deeply of those trembling lips until she begged him for something far different than music...

Clenching his jaw, he forced concentration to her plea, finding it ironic that he commanded the same from her, to sing, one of the very reasons she was kept his prisoner. His music might be the only method to put an end to this current madness. With his voice, he had learned to manipulate emotion. After Persia, he swore never to do so again.

Tonight only, he would break that vow.

He began to sing, his voice low and hypnotic, soothing Christine with what sounded like a French lullaby. Her frantic grip on his shoulders slackened, her lids growing heavy and slipping closed as he crooned to her in a rich, beautiful voice that belonged soaring through a realm of clouds and sky, not buried deep within caves of outer darkness…where no angel belonged…perhaps not even a phantom in angel's disguise…

Christine vaguely felt him lower her to his bed, now cocooned in such a warm, trusting peace all consuming fears and anxieties melted away. Slipping further into the oblivion of quiet slumber, her lips tilted in a faint smile.

Overwhelmed by the entire occurrence, the Phantom moved from her and covered her with the bedding. His emotions in a turmoil of conflict, he stood and watched her sleep as the minutes made their passage. He did not dare dwell on the reason for her emotional collapse, he could not…Secretly he had sworn to make her life a deserved punishment; instead he had given his deceiving little angel one moment's tranquility, but suffered no regret for the temporary lapse...

He frowned and quickly left the bedchamber, escaping to his dark music, the one source essential to reclaim his detachment when all else failed him.

**xXx**


	26. Chapter 26

**A/N: Thank you for your sweet reviews! Red roses w/ black ribbons (tied by Erik) flung toward all of you! :) … ****And now…**

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**XXVI**

.

Christine woke to a room softly lit by candlelight, this time the knowledge of her location instantly surfacing to mind.

She was in his bed …

In_ his_ bed.

The Phantom of the Opera … who had been such a tyrant to her, such a beast and a fiend, had held her in comfort and at her tearful request had sung her to sleep like a little child.

Surely it could have been nothing more than a bizarre dream…

Her body told her otherwise.

She had wept until what little energy she recovered drained from her bones and had fallen asleep to his lyrical voice without realizing it. She failed to understand her contradictory mind and why she had made the request of him. She knew the dangers, the possessive control of his music, its ability to make her one with its maker. But in that wavering moment she had wished only for him to stay and needed his voice to reach into her battered soul, to bring her solace…

Now every part of her felt … calm. No longer empty. A warm lassitude of ease, her body still weak from the illness and lack of solid food. But what was incredible - the hollow ache in the center of her chest that plagued her since Erik's death had vanished, cleansed away by her deepest tears, while the Phantom had held her. He had _held_ her…

And she had finally let go.

Uncertain if she should feel relieved or troubled about all of what occurred, she stared at the strange half woman/half serpent statue. Based on his words at their initial meeting, in all likelihood this monstrosity was a visual expression of how he felt toward womankind ... she frowned and looked back at the dark canopy, ill at ease with the prospect though she could not pinpoint the reason. More flustered that she should want to, she forced concentration back to her recent experience with the Phantom and what led to it.

She would always love Erik. He was a part of her that would never die. The past could not be stolen. Unlike the present and future, it was hers always to cherish. But she had come to realize that she could no longer allow such memories to be the total existence of her life…

And the Phantom had held her as she cried.

That, above everything else, shocked her the most.

A step on the stones alerted her to company. She pulled the sheet higher to her neck and watched as the girl – Jolene – walked into the room, a porcelain basin in her hands.

"Hello." Christine eyed her uncertainly.

One of the last times she remembered seeing her, Jolene had run terrified from her room. On the most recent occurrence, Christine had shouted for her to take the trunk away, wheeled to her chamber on a wooden cart, proclaiming she wanted nothing from him. It had been foolish of course, her illness proof, but she had feared receiving any gratuity from the Phantom to improve her position thus becoming indebted to him. Such a feeble defense was no longer practical; her abductor had given her aid without her being aware.

Strangely the thought did not trouble her as much as it should though she still felt angry that he'd had the gall to burn her uniform, leaving her no choice but to accept whatever the trunk offered.

The girl set down the basin and turned with clasped hands and an uneasy smile. "I must tend your wound."

Her wound?

"I don't understand."

The girl unclasped her hands and moved them to the edge of the sheet where Christine held it to her neck. "Please, mademoiselle, I must wash your back."

"My back?"

"Oui." Jolene tugged the sheet from Christine's faint hold. Before she could question, the girl slipped the straps from her shoulders and the cool underground air hit her skin. Startled, Christine clutched the sheet to her breasts as her shift fell lower. Moments later she felt a wet sponge dab her skin. She shivered at the chill.

"What wound …?"

"The Maestro said it must be cleansed and dressed every day."

"The Maestro said that?" she asked in mounting dread. "How would the Maestro know …?"

"When I bathed you, when you had the fever, I saw the scratches," she explained as she worked. "They were not healed well. I told the Maestro. He said some were infected. It was part of what made you so sick. He used his brandy and you screamed in your sleep. You do not remember? He showed me how to use the paste he made from herbs, and it looks better, so you need not worry…"

The Maestro used his brandy on her? _The Phantom_ had seen her in this state?

More shocking to her than to learn the meddlesome irritation she had suffered from the attack had evolved into infection was that he had seen her so exposed. She pressed the sheet more fully against her bared breasts, scarcely noticing when Jolene rubbed in a thick paste against her shoulder blade.

Flustered, she sought for words but found none.

"You were very sick," Jolene continued with a curious hitch to her voice. "You were out of your head, speaking strange things. You called out for someone. For Erik…"

Christine gave a brief nod of dismissal, not wishing to relive her nightmares or speak of them after having finally come to the turning point of letting go. Troublesome, shadowy issues clouded her mind and she badly needed illumination.

"The Phantom tended me?" Her face grew hotter with the words she could manage. "Like _this?_"

"You are upset?" Jolene looked concerned. "He saw only your back, mademoiselle. The sheet I had pulled to your waist. He did not see elsewhere. I bathed you the day after he brought you to this chamber. It was then I saw the scratches and told him. He came to see, but only then. I stayed with you most of the time…"

The Phantom had seen her unclothed before she wept on him. He removed her uniform before Jolene bathed her and later burned it … Christine shook her head, flustered, trying to sort out what she knew, thankful she had worn her shift beneath the issued chemise. At first an odd whim perhaps, since tradition called for only one, but she thanked Providence for her choice. Would he have stripped her nude if she hadn't? Fire burned beneath her skin and she quickly attributed it to embarrassment. With his reputation of dishonor she was sure of it, and she shook her head, resentful. No man had ever seen so much of her skin bared, not even Erik. She felt a little faint with the knowledge that the Phantom had seen more of her body than her dead lover had…

Noticing the girl's distress, Christine forced a smile. "You did what you must, I suppose."

She understood there had been no option, but it helped her feel no less awkward. Already she questioned how she would again face him after her pitiful lamentation … after he had _held_ her and she had clung to him … after he had seen her … _like this_.

Christine worked to pull herself together, chastising all foolishness bound up in what maidenly innocence she could yet claim. She could not change events and it did no good to dwell on the past. _Any_ part of her past. It would be much better to forget what he did, what he had or had not seen, since she remembered so little of the incident. Only the horrific pain, when he poured what must have been brandy on the infected scratches. And Jolene had been there, so that made the situation less … wicked … Didn't it?

She swallowed, trying to dislodge the awkward lump from her throat as the girl pulled her shift back to her shoulders.

"Why did you run from me the day you first came to my chamber?" Christine asked curiously, adjusting her shift to sit higher.

The girl picked up the bowl and fidgeted with it as if uncertain she should speak. She held it to her stomach, her fingertips white from pressing it so hard.

"It's alright." Christine faintly smiled in reassurance. "It's just that … I would like to understand. Was it something I said?"

She gave a tense nod. "You said you would take me from here."

Christine regarded her in stunned surprise. "You _don't_ _wish to leave_ these caves?"

"The Maestro has been good to me and my brother. This is our home. Up above, they are cruel. The Maestro takes care of us and let's no harm come to us…"

Christine gaped at her startling response.

"I will bring you some broth. The Maestro said you must eat. We gave you water and medicine, but you would not eat."

"Where exactly is the…" She could not bring herself to use the absurd title again. "…the Phantom?"

"He is composing. You wish to speak with him?"

"No! I - I was only curious." She lowered her voice, fearful he might overhear, though chances were slim. "How long have you known him?"

"We have been here for over two years, Jacques and myself."

Over two _years?_ "You both seem so young …"

The girl shrugged. "I am soon sixteen. My brother is five," she said, answering Christine's unasked question.

That meant she was only thirteen when the Phantom took her as his slave? And the boy, what of him? He had been _three? _

"What of your parents?"

"Our mother died when I was twelve. My father died when I was a baby. I do not know who Jacques' father is."

Christine froze with the memory.

_"…is he your son?"_

_Her nerves were almost frayed by the time he finally answered._

_"In a sense."_

_In a sense? What the hell was that supposed to mean? She frowned at him._

_"I take care of him."_

Christine recalled the unusual kindness with which the Phantom treated the boy.

_Was_ Jacques his son?

The thought strangely unsettled her. From the little she'd seen of the lad, he had been happy and not the least bit terrified to dwell below the earth with the man who was a fearsome legend to all in the theater…that same man had held the hand of the child, treating him with gentle regard, as if he were his own, instructing him to go play with his toy soldiers...

…and he had held her in strong arms of comfort and sung to her with his beautiful voice. With him only had she been able to release the deepest remnants of her grief.

It made no sense … went completely against all that did. Went against the image of the ogre she had devised since their initial meeting. Oh, he was still cruel by his own admission and act of abducting her, keeping her his prisoner, but he was not entirely heartless. Perhaps he was not even the monster she thought him, the beast he endlessly assured her he was…

Just who _was_ this man?

"Have you seen beneath his mask?" The words slipped out of their own accord; she didn't even realize she considered them.

Jolene's eyes widened with unease. "No, mademoiselle. No one is allowed to look. You must never try. It makes him very angry."

Her grave words led Christine to believe the girl did attempt to see, and she quickly asked another question.

"How did you meet him?"

Jolene hesitated. "I must get your broth." She hurriedly moved to the entrance.

"But - can you not at least tell me…?"

Jolene disappeared before she could say more.

Christine frowned, supposing she should be grateful that she'd been able to glean some information before the girl darted off again. From the manner in which Jolene behaved, she seemed to fear Christine! The ludicrous thought almost made her laugh.

If the girl should fear anyone, she should fear the …

Music disturbed the quiet, the organ's mellow chords coming with abrupt precision and destroying all train of thought. She clenched her fists in the sheet, unable to endure another distressing episode of the heart or passion inciting encounter of the soul, helpless to flee his evocative music. The chords went on for a short time then just as suddenly stopped. Christine held her breath as quiet seconds hung suspended in time waiting to be shattered. The deep chords resounded, making her jump despite that she'd been expecting them. They bore a slight alteration, and she let out her breath in a heavy rasp …

The music stopped. Then started. Again and again … Starting, stopping, a continuous cycle - only these notes did not control her mind or imprison her soul. They were experimental, soothing but sad. Had her own previous hysteria propelled the outcome of her frenzied emotions, and not his passionate music? In confusion, she relaxed little by little as the notes played on without threat, a somber calm gradually stealing away her subdued panic.

x

Christine ate the broth without question, feeling a modicum of strength return. Her body starved for food, she asked for a second bowl. She no longer feared her meals being drugged - in her helplessness he could have forced himself on her and hadn't, according to Jolene, according to the Phantom - instead ministering his aid - twice - when she'd been ill. Dear God, he had even saved her life…saved her from the fever, saved her from his vipers…She knew his motives were selfish and why he did not wish to lose her, that he still held hope she would sing. But the dual experience had taught her no longer to fear him…

No matter his reputation for violence, the Phantom would never hurt her. Of that she was now certain. And in that calming conviction she found a source of new strength.

Jolene appeared and with the broth also brought half a loaf of bread. Christine wolfed it down with no care for bothersome manners, her need ravenous. Jolene brought the remainder of the loaf and Christine rapidly did it justice too.

Jolene showed her to the chamber used for a privy and upon her return, Christine was shocked to find the little boy sitting on her bed, a wooden soldier clutched in his hand.

"Hello," she said, slipping back beneath the sheet and bringing it up around her. "You must be Jacques."

He smiled in reply, his bright blue eyes shining beneath long, unruly locks of dark hair, almost black in color. This close, she could see that his sweet face belonged to a cherubic angel. His mouth she had seen before - the lower lip slightly fuller, with a hint of an upward tilt at the corners…

It was the Phantom's mouth. And the boy's chin was likewise as pronounced and stubborn.

Christine had her answer.

It confused her why it should make her heart ache.

She watched the boy play with his soldier and wondered what one said to a child so young. Henley had only been a babe barely walking when she left, not yet able to converse.

"Do you like to play with your soldiers?" An inane question, but she could think of little else to say. Not that it mattered, since the boy remained silent. Yet he didn't seem shy to come seek her out.

"May I see?" Cautiously she held her hand toward him, not wishing to scare him off.

He looked at her hand then up into her eyes and gave her his wooden figurine. She stared with surprise at the statuette of an angel, the finely sanded wood damp and warm from being held in his small grip. The lines of wings, robe, and curls were fluid, carved with grace and beauty.

She traced a feathery wingtip with her finger then smiled at him. "It's very pretty."

He burst into an enthusiastic smile and scooted off the bed, scampering toward the lake chamber.

"Wait - where are you …" Christine looked at the empty entrance in shock. "…going," she added to herself.

She shook her head in mild frustration and again studied the angel, turning it over to examine it closer. Half the size of her hand, the carving was exquisite, but where a face should be remained blank, untouched by the whittler's knife. She brushed her fingertip across the smooth area.

The boy returned, his small arms full of toy figurines. Wood clattered together as he dumped them at Christine's feet and crawled back on the bed, looking up at her expectantly.

One by one, she picked up each carving to study. Angels, all the same, graceful, faceless, with long flowing curls… and demons, all different. Each figurine created with the skill of an expert craftsman and in great detail. The demons bore faces, their countenances gruesome. She gave a little shiver as she looked into the leering visage of one and quickly set it back down. These must be the boy's "soldiers". And with their dark, bizarre characteristics, the hand that carved them could belong to only one man.

"Did the Phantom make these for you?"

The boy continued to play with two of his grotesque dolls. It was a wonder they did not give him nightmares. He looked up again, his eyes eager, and handed her another angel. Clearly he wanted her to play with him.

"Oh, um. Alright…" With her legs crossed, she lightly held one in each hand on her knees, the sheet tucked beneath her armpits. "Do you like being here with the Phantom?"

He clenched his teeth in a frightful grimace and moved his demon figure forward, knocking it against the angel figure and out of her hand.

"Hmm," she mused with a wry grin. "My Papa always led me to believe the angels were the ones destined to win…" Though with the wretched story of her life, the devils had experienced far greater triumph.

"Jacques cannot hear you," Jolene said as she walked back into the chamber. "He cannot speak either. He never has."

Christine regarded the girl in surprise. The child was a deaf mute? She looked back at the lively boy playing his game of pretend. He appeared content…

"How does he understand anything you tell him?"

"If you speak few words and slowly so he can watch your lips, he can tell. We also use our hands to speak."

Jolene sat on the bed, close to the boy. He warily glanced at her as if he did not wish to, then quickly looked back to his demons he had propped up in clutched hands walking them along the bed. She put her hand to his chin, forcing him to look at her then pointed to his chest. "Go eat your supper." As she said the last word, she brought her hand to her mouth as if using an invisible fork.

The boy pouted but slipped off the bed, gathering up his toy soldiers.

"I don't mind his company if he wants to visit later." Christine handed the other angel to Jacques, smiling in encouragement. She had no idea how she would entertain a child who could not hear and share in conversation, save for knocking demons out of his hand with her angels, but she realized with a start of surprise she would like to try.

Jolene shook her head. "The Maestro has given orders not to disturb you."

"Oh, but I'm feeling much better. And it does get lonely…"

"He does not wish us to speak with you. Even before you were sick. He said you were a danger -"

"He said _what?_" Angry that he should make such a demand based on an absurd lie, she crossed her arms over her chest. "I think I should like to speak to _the Maestro_ after all."

"I should not have said what I did. Please do not tell him I told you…"

Christine briefly nodded and sat rigidly back against the pillow. She had plenty to say to the Phantom without bringing the girl into it.

**xXx**

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**A/N: Yes, I know a chapter without Erik. Next one will have plenty of him, I promise. ;-)**


	27. Chapter 27

**A/N: thank you for the reviews - please keep them coming! :)**

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**Chapter XXVII**

.

Christine's wait lasted much longer than she could have anticipated.

Jolene soon returned with news that the Maestro was nowhere to be found. Christine then waited in vain for his return, and though she heard him speak to Jolene in the lake room, he did not come to her that evening…

Or the next…

Or the next…

His calculated distance sharpened her ire. Apparently his absurd command for her seclusion now extended to all living beings, including himself! After Jolene's slim disclosures, the girl did not open up to her again, keeping all tasks that involved Christine brief and hurrying away once they were accomplished. The boy remained absent though at times she sensed him peek around the corner at her only to scurry off when she would turn her head to look and catch his eye.

The days and nights were sequenced by the meals Jolene brought. After being served three times with morning's clear broths and evening's thick stews, Christine reasoned that three days must have passed. She slept most of the time, slowly regaining strength. On the fourth occasion Jolene brought her broth, she asked and Jolene confirmed that it had indeed been four days since Christine woke from the fever.

And still she waited for the elusive Phantom to make an appearance.

He remained frustratingly absent, showing no inclination to abide by her wishes to speak with him, though she _knew_ Jolene had delivered her appeal for an audience with the man. _Ten times_ she had asked the girl to deliver her request - each morning and afternoon and the past two evenings.

Upon hearing the reverberating strains of the organ, as she had at the close of each day, Christine pressed her mouth into a thin line and pushed aside her empty stew bowl.

She had endured enough.

With her courage bolstered, she rose from his bed, limbs still shaky from being bedridden. She had built up strength walking to the privy chamber a few times each day and felt she could undertake this too. With nothing but her shift and no wrapper, she pulled the sheet from the wide bed and draped herself in its generous folds.

Moving to the entrance, she looked toward the rock dais and glared at the back of the stubborn man seated at the massive pipe organ.

x

The Phantom kept his attention on the unfinished musical composition spread before him, forcing bare concentration on the recent addition of escalating notes.

She made no noise, but he knew she was there. He sensed her close behind … as he had sensed her throughout the past four days … throughout the past week and a half, from the moment she had opened the back stage door and entered the opera house and he watched her make her way through the chaos of performers. As he had always been able to sense her presence in all the time he had known her.

Once he considered such a facility good fortune. Now it was only a curse.

Since he'd brought her to his private chambers, in the early morning hours before each dawn's arrival, and against all better judgment, he had slipped into his bedchamber to watch briefly while she slept. To ensure she was alive. Then had forced himself to move away. Storming through hidden corridors and into the sleeping city to the peak of exhaustion, only to return and fall into fitful slumber. Harsh memories of when she tangled with feverish death from a cur's attack had been his constant torment. Their last encounter, culminating in a desperate embrace and coming on the heels of almost losing her again, had shaken him and his well-ordered plan to its cracking foundations.

Indifference had been harder to recapture, but his feelings did not revise what he knew to be true. About her. About _that fiendish boy _with the wretchedly perfect face. The Vicomte would arrive soon enough, he was certain of that, and when he did he would know hell for what he'd done. It was imperative to keep detached and distant in order to persist with the scheme to keep her trapped here. If she broke again, God help him, so might he… He could not relent! Damn it! He had worked too hard to reach this point.

But he had underrated her tenacity to speak with him. And though he kept his attention fixed ahead and could not see her, he felt her silent approach, the experience almost tangible…

Over the past days, Jolene's messages of Christine's desire for an audience with him had changed from - "The mademoiselle would like to speak with you, Maestro." - to "She says to tell you she must see you at once."

From all he knew about her, he should have known she would not yield, his unspoken refusal an impetus to her wretched stubbornness in compelling her to seek him out.

With a terse breath he lifted his hands from the keys and scratched out another notation with his pen. He cursed his hand that trembled.

"Monsieur Phantom."

He stiffened his spine at her curt address coming from the foot of the dais.

"You should be in bed," he said abruptly without turning.

"Since you have so obstinately refused to acknowledge my request, I had no choice but to leave it." Innumerable seconds of tension elapsed. "At least have the courtesy to look at me when we speak."

A chill swept through him at the unwanted memory of such words … words from another lifetime - of that last day he had been with her, spoken to her. He had heard all of what she said to him - then…

And enough of what she spouted to her maid later.

With a scowl he turned on the bench and regarded her with blatant disapproval.

"Well?" he snapped impatient to be rid of her.

"Why is it that the children run from me?"

He stared, undergoing a momentary lack of comprehension._ That_ was why she was so adamant to speak with him? Because of _the children?_

She stood perilously close to the edge of the bank, wrapped in maroon silk with at least a yard of sheet trailing behind, her hair a chaotic mass of curls hanging to her waist. The bloom of roses again had entered her cheeks and her haunted eyes sparkled with new fire.

God, she was exquisite…

"Will you not answer?" She took a step forward, stumbling a little on her ridiculous attire. Her hand shot out from draped maroon and grabbed the statue of a phoenix, saving her fall.

With an oath he exploded up off the bench and down three steps, grabbing her arm before she pitched head first into the cold lake.

"Let me go." She tried pulling away.

Had he released her, she _would_ have fallen into the water.

"Be quiet," he rasped.

He put his hands to where hers clutched silk around her and forced them away, then ripped the silk from her shoulders. She gawked at him, silent for once as he threw the sheet from her body.

With great effort, he forced himself not to look at sensual curves and shadows, her slight figure outlined in the near transparent ivory shift - and rapidly lifted her into his arms.

"Wh-what do you think you're doing?" she whispered, her hand instinctively going to his shoulder to hold on. She did not struggle to be free of him, did not even move, and in mild confusion he studied her face.

Her eyes were wide with shock, a hint of remaining sparkle lighting their dark depths. He could make out every feathery lash that framed them. Her lips faintly parted, trembling…

The desire to press his mouth to hers and relearn their supple lines overwhelmed him, the faded memory of her sweet taste a cruel enticement to know it so powerfully again. His wounded heart knocked hard against his ribs, her softness and warmth clouding all sense. Fire ignited his veins to bring erotic dreams into reality, to carry her up to his bedchamber and lie with her in his bed …

A shimmer of alarm rippled in the twin pools of her eyes before they lowered and focused on his mouth. A tiny whimper of protest sounded at the back of her throat even as her fingers dug into his shoulder.

He hardened his jaw, his muscles tensing. She had no knowledge that her fright could not begin to amount to her horror should she glimpse what lay behind the mask, for more than one reason…

She feared a Phantom, a criminal, both of which he was, not knowing he was also the gargoyle she had spurned and no more than a monstrous appellation to humanity. Unworthy of love from such a beautiful creature. Himself, a scarred animal that belonged obscured in shadows and hidden behind a mask. For a brief time he once foolishly believed he could know and have what every man wanted, love with a woman. With _her_. But she had deceived him in her selfish pretense and ripped that glimmer of hope from his heart, as surely as if she had ripped away his mask.

_This_ was always what he had been, always what he would be. Nothing could change that.

Snapping his attention ahead of him, the Phantom marched with her up the short staircase to his bedchamber. All the while he felt her wide stare fixed on his face, her body frozen in fear against him. Did she expect him to beat her and treat her no better than _that boy _had done? Had he not proved again and again that he would never harm her?

The knowledge angered him, even if her reaction was conceivable given her bad experience - and his blatant, damned desire.

Desperate to regain distance he tossed her to the soft mattress with little regard for caution.

"I'm saving myself the trouble of having to fish you out of the lake," he clipped, answering her almost forgotten question.

Christine frowned, rubbing her hip. He grabbed the coverlet from the foot of the bed and flung it at her. It landed partially over her head and she pulled it down with a scowl, trying to blow the misplaced hair from her face. She gave up and whisked the tangled strands away with one impatient hand.

He regarded her with a bitter smile. "You are a danger to yourself and to the children, mademoiselle. _That_ is why I told them to stay away from you."

"I would never do anything to cause them harm!" She pulled the cover up against her, tucking it beneath her arms.

"By attempting to bribe them in helping you to escape these caverns, you would endanger their lives. They do not know of all the traps, below and above. Nor do you."

"Above?"

He stared hard at her. "Pardon, mademoiselle. You could not possibly understand. The world is full of snares for the unfortunate, chiefly those who are not _perfect creatures_ and are without influential _friends_."

"I've had my share of troubles, _as you now know!_" she insisted in a hiss and he winced at the reminder. "And why should you think my life was so privileged?"

"I watched you those first days in the theater. The manner in which you speak and compose yourself. You behave as no victim of society's rebuke but a lady well bred." He sneered the words as if they were a curse. "It causes one to wonder why you would deign to lower yourself to the position of a cleaning woman…"

The issue confused him, that her vanity had allowed her to agree to such a lowly position. Unless she had done so only to escape returning to England and the boy.

Unable to challenge his derisive words without admitting she was also a fugitive, she ignored his caustic sketch of her character that ended in an unasked question.

"One takes what is available when the need arises, monsieur. Sometimes there is no place for pride."

Before she could gather his intent, he closed the distance in swift strides and grabbed her wrist, forcing her hand up to display her palm to both of them. He softly ran the tip of his finger over the hardened lumps below the inside of her knuckles and felt her shiver beneath his touch.

Taking perverse pleasure in her revulsion, he narrowed his eyes at her.

"Again you attempt to deceive? These are not the calluses of a maid of three days but a worker who has endured hard labor for months, even years. Do you deny it?"

She snapped her wrist from his grip and straightened her spine, glaring up at him, all spit and fire and angry determination. "First you claim I must be a lady then state otherwise? Make up your mind, monsieur."

"I said you _behave_ like a lady. There is a great difference."

"I deny nothing, nor will I explain, since it is no business of yours who I was or what I did before I came to this miserable place!"

Frustrated by her tenacity to challenge him yet relieved to see the fight had not gone out of her, he found himself wishing to incite her innate fiery nature. Then wondered why the hell he should care…

His last contact with his well remunerated spy had been half a year ago. Since then, his informant had seemed to fall off the face of English soil, or perhaps lay buried within it, not that it mattered any longer, with Christine here and right where the Phantom wanted her.

Through the wily man, he last learned that she moved back to the Heights, though his spy had not uncovered the reason. Once he heard the news, the Phantom assumed Christine left her pathetic lover due to a sudden attack of morality, to try and rectify the scandal she'd made of her life, though he was also informed the wretched boy often visited and the two were engaged. Her departure from The Grange had evidently been due to keeping up false appearances so people would cease to talk …

The activities of the "handsome young Vicomte and his beautiful mistress rumored to be a little mad," had been public knowledge. Their travels bandied about in every North England tavern with no small interest and greater ridicule, and the first news the Phantom had unwittingly stumbled across after his harrowing escape from Persia. He wondered if Christine's mysterious return to the Heights had more to do with fiscal struggle and less with moral conscience, though why the damned Vicomte had given her no aid posed its own maddening question…

With a curt bow in reply to her adamant refusal to air past affairs, he silently swore to leave them to rot and turned to exit the chamber.

Christine unconsciously leaned forward, not yet satisfied. "How did the children come to be in your possession?" She tossed out the questions that burned in her mind for days. "Did you know their mother?"

He narrowed his eyes but did not turn to answer. Apparently his past was to be open for forthright discussion, but her previous affairs were forbidden. Her contrariness did not surprise him.

She huffed an irritated breath. "I hardly think to tell me will endanger anyone's lives!"

He moved slowly to face her and took even longer to answer. "I came across them one night. They needed aid. I helped them."

She waited for more but he remained silent and she realized that was all she would learn. Nor did that answer her previous question about their mother. She pouted.

"How much longer must I remain here?"

"I have told you the conditions of your release."

"No," she shook her head in frustration. "I mean _here_. In your bed."

Uncomfortable warmth singed Christine's skin, her body a traitorous villain to her desire to be free of him. His touch and embrace had aroused sensations that stunned her, terrifying in their response. Only one man before this had ever sparked such raw feeling, and she assumed her brief closeness with the Phantom days ago must be confusing her into again drawing a comparison between the two men.

She could not exist like this! Not any longer. She would no longer remain a victim to the past and all its trappings. It was time to move forward and attempt to take the only path she could see out of this madness…

"When you are stronger and able to stand without falling, you may return to your own chamber," he answered curtly. He looked at her another unsettling moment, then swiftly turned away.

Before he could exit, she leaned toward him.

"Monsieur, I have decided."

The Phantom halted, her quiet words striking him immobile with shock.

Once more he slowly pivoted to face her...

**xXx**


	28. Chapter 28

**A/N: Thank you for your reviews! :) And now…**

* * *

**Chapter XXVIII**

.

He stared at her where she sat, mussed and fragile, his heart beating fast and wary.

She looked up at him where he towered above her, a light of determination in her eyes.

"You have decided," he repeated, his voice low. He cursed the quaver that revealed his turbulent emotions, his vulnerability and anger, his disbelief and that once forgotten glimmer of wretched hope. "Exactly _what_ have you decided, mademoiselle?"

Surely she would not…

"I will sing for you, and will agree for you to teach me your opera…"

He struggled for the next breath.

"But I will not marry you."

A chill calm swept away the unwelcome heat that had begun to burn through his blood. Her words came as little surprise. Did he honestly expect her to agree to an eternal union with the Phantom she abhorred? That she was ignorant of his identity failed to matter; she had never wanted him as the pitiful creature she had known either, her persuasive words empty when held up against her divergent acts. He had been a girlish curiosity to her budding womanhood - had received the cruel message of her true feelings well and from more than one source. But this time, her callous heart would be given no chance to refuse. This time she _would_ concede or live in this hell of a prison until her last breath.

She thought him a monster? Then he would give her a monster!

"Your condition is not an option," he quietly seethed. "The terms I have set are not open for compromise. You will marry me, Mademoiselle Daae, or you will live beneath the earth _forever_!"

Desperation entered her eyes. "I swear to you, I'll obey all your rules and be a model student. I'll never attempt to escape again. _But please don't ask this of me!_"

He hardened his heart to the tremor in her voice. "You must do all I have said."

"But - _why? _I don't understand why it's even necessary!"

He crossed his arms over his chest. "Do you know anything of the law?"

At mention of the law she winced, reminded that she was a fugitive…

But then, so was he.

"What does the law have to do with your insistence that I marry you?" she demanded.

"By marital rights, a husband receives the entirety of his wife's worldly goods."

"I _have_ no worldly goods!"

"Surely you must know that once you become the lead in my opera, you will receive a salary to reflect that? As your manager and teacher I will make certain you receive the highest sum allotted."

She blinked. "_That's_ what this is about? The money?" She gave a frustrated laugh. "I care nothing about the money! You can have every bit of it if you wish."

"Forgive me, mademoiselle, if I cannot take you at your word."

He regarded her coldly. How smoothly she lied to gain what she desired. In that respect she had not changed.

"Then," she thought frantically, "give me a contract to sign. I will sign all of it away if you will only release me from this one condition and not force me to go through with a wedding. I cannot marry you, monsieur! I just - I _cannot_!" She stopped short of explaining that she could marry no one_._ That she would never marry.

"The law officials and I have no warm-hearted camaraderie," he said dryly. "I cannot procure a notary to witness the contract."

She drew her brows together, remembering a little of what she had overheard Raoul and his friend speak of unofficial contracts. Too little to help but enough to know they existed. Did they not have such documents in France?

"Surely we can find one witness, _any_ witness - "

He held up his hand. "I, too, have decided, and _my decision_ stands."

She crossed her arms over the coverlet she had tucked beneath her armpits. "There must be some method of compromise, a way to satisfy us both."

He narrowed his eyes pensively and she hastened to add, "To give you the singer you wish for your opera and to allot me the freedom I need."

"I have told you the way to earn it."

"But - _that_ _is not freedom!_"

He shrugged. "It is the sum of all you will ever receive."

Her shoulders drooped in defeat and the light left her eyes.

The change disturbed him.

"However…"

Christine gazed intently at his masked face as she waited for him to continue. Not for the first time she wished she could see beyond the concealing black leather to read his expressions.

"I will teach you, starting tomorrow, if you feel enough recovered…" She gave a little consenting nod and he went on, "We need every allowable moment to prepare you for the role. In these upcoming months, perhaps you will realize that to live in a drafty cave five levels beneath the earth is a death in itself and will come to your senses to accept the rest of your fate."

"And if I don't?"

"I have made the consequences abundantly clear."

She considered it useless to persist in refusing to marry him when he was so adamantly closed to her response. A thought came to mind and buoyed her hope.

"How do you expect me to sing in your opera if you keep me _here_?"

His mouth twisted in a wicked grin that caused her heart to skip a beat. He drew his hands behind him, clasping his wrist while slowly walking a short distance away. "I _could_ keep you here to sing only for me …" He turned in profile to look at her. "But it is essential to dispense with the excuse for a diva that currently litters the stage. At one time, perhaps, she had talent to garner what loyal admirers she has left. Yet she is long past her prime and her wretched vanity refuses to make allowances for that."

"_Dispense_ with her?" she whispered. "You don't mean _murder_?"

He chuckled softly, darkly, sending a chill along her spine.

"You know of my reputation."

"But - you cannot _kill her_ simply because you do not wish her to sing!"

"She has committed numerous crimes to deserve such justice. Abandoning a family to wallow in poverty while she rose to fame and destroyed who she must to do it; engaging in affairs with married men and destroying _their_ families…those are only a few societal atrocities I could list," he sneered then waved a careless hand. "But sins against society hold no interest for me. Outside of this theater the soon deposed diva may do as she damn well pleases and all the better if she inflicts anguish on the heartless. _Let them all burn!_ I have committed more than my fair share of offenses against humanity …"

Her throat went dry with apprehension at his damning words even as compassion twisted her heart at the anguish she could see beyond the rage smoldering in his eyes. Twin windows of gold into the mask that covered his soul, they exposed great torment and hatred and she wondered what terrible misery he had suffered…

"No, mademoiselle, I will not kill her. There are other means available at my disposal to achieve the end result."

"What means?" She barely managed to utter the words.

"You have not observed the limitless abilities of the Opera Ghost. I have many tricks, many devices…"

"Tricks," she repeated incredulously. "Devices? That statue you pushed could have killed her!"

"I knew what I was doing. Each performer has a set position where they must stand during every moment of the performance. I was aware of where the Italian menace would be and the direction the statue would fall."

"You are so sure of yourself…" her words trailed off in disbelief. "What if your plan did not go as you intended? What if at the last minute something went wrong and she was not standing where she should have been?"

"Then…" He shrugged gracefully, again lifting slender hands with a careless little smirk. "…she would have died."

She stared at him in horrified disbelief. "You speak of death so freely, without any feeling…"

Henri had been cruel and evil, had deserved to suffer, but even so, his death haunted her in that _she_ had been the one to deliver its eternal sentence. Christine shuddered at the memory.

"Do you not feel even an ounce of remorse for the lives you have taken?"

He suddenly turned from her, lowering his head and presenting her with his back. It was a moment before he spoke, his deep voice quieter than before.

"I am an inventor, mademoiselle. I was in complete control of the situation. I rigged that statue to fall as it did." He slowly spun to look at her again. "I am also a master magician, a creature of shadows, and can appear and disappear at will. And _that_ is how you will go above to sing should you be so unwise as to refuse my condition to wed. I will be watching you each moment that you are absent from my caverns, and when the final bow is executed and the curtain falls to the stage, I will be there to sweep you away, back to my underground world. If you are foolish enough to cry out for help and anyone attempts to waylay me, then I will _dispense_ with them too."

Speechless and shaken by his cool, implacable words, Christine dropped her gaze from his piercing amber eyes with their deadly promise. She found herself staring at the partial slope of his mouth that the bottom edge of the mask did not hide, at his firm chin and stubborn jaw with its faint shadow of a beard…her eyes wandered to the column of his neck and below, where a thatch of pale skin glistened, quickly looking lower to the lean expanse of his chest she knew to be strong, the loose shirt he wore with its flowing lines oddly accentuating the fact. Despite his slim build she was certain he could outwit any opponent, if not with brawn then with his intellect.

Warmth rushed in a current beneath her skin, and she flicked her eyes back to his. He was a creature of power, of infinite danger and mercurial emotions that defied all reason - and she did not doubt a word of all he said. Madman that he was, she had come to realize he was indeed a genius at many things.

"Why do you do it?"

The Phantom felt as surprised as she looked by her blunt question. "Commit murder?"

"No, why do you live so far beneath the earth?"

"I have told you my reasons."

"Yes, I know, you're a wanted man in hiding." She waved a dismissive hand. "But why beneath the earth? Certainly there are other secluded places - places in the fresh air you could have gone."

"None within reach of the opera house."

"But why is the opera house so important to you?"

"Music is my life. All I possess. The one dream left to me that I will not let die…"

She looked at him curiously, certain there must be more to impel him to dwell in such bleak darkness. He clenched his jaw and looked away.

"Are you still willing to sing for me, Mademoiselle Daae?"

Christine barely nodded, having come to accept such a fate as her only way to see another sunrise. "Yes."

"Very good. Jolene will bring the trunk you refused so that you have clothing to wear."

"Before you go, monsieur, there is one last matter that needs addressed…."

x

She stopped him a second time before he could fully turn to exit, and he regarded her with bare patience. "Well?"

"There is one stipulation I must insist on before I agree to become your lead."

"I wasn't aware you were the one giving orders," he countered dryly.

"You would have no reason to disagree. It has nothing to do with you."

"I'm intrigued." He inclined his head in a nod. "Go on."

Christine hesitated, determined to tell him as little as possible. "I don't wish to go by my family name of Daae."

"You are ashamed of simple beginnings?" The lax amusement on his face deepened to a mild scowl, his words full of censure. "Perhaps you wish to be addressed as La Christina and dispense with a surname entirely?"

She frowned at his sarcasm. "Why should you now assume I have simple beginnings? Need I remind you that earlier you thought I was a lady."

"I said that you _behaved_ like a lady," he corrected. "Not that you are one."

"I _could_ be a lady," she insisted. "An escaped daughter of a noble, not wishing to be found…"

He snorted in wry amusement. "What I believe is that you are a consummate actress. And now that you've conceded to my demand to sing you wish to reinvent yourself into a mysterious role that permits no claim to family that can be traced - but will undoubtedly intrigue every avaricious reporter of the medium."

Her chin lifted in angry offense, weary of his blatant toying with her, a stalking cat to a caged canary. "My father was a wonderful violinist, a marvelous credit to the musical profession. My reasons to dispense with my surname have nothing to do with my family. It's for - other reasons I don't care to discuss…"

Henri's death and her role in it had everything to do with her need to change her name.

The Phantom watched as she nervously glanced at the bed. He stared hard at her.

Surely she had no desire to remain involved with the Vicomte and was not seeking what she assumed were viable solutions, to keep him and her career? After the attack she suffered at the foul hands of the condemned fool, he failed to understand - if that was her intent. He clenched his fists as he pondered her request and grew certain that must be her motive. What hold did the loathsome boy have over her! Yes, she was prideful and desired a life of plenty, with servants rushing to meet her every whim and a wardrobe of fine dresses to wear - but did she have no shame? Did she perceive herself as nothing more than a beautifully furnished rug to be beaten at will?

"No," he said, narrowing his eyes.

She slapped the bed beside her leg in exasperation. _"Why not?"_

"The name Daae works well as a stage name. You have said your father was renowned in the world of music. What better reason to keep the name that would honor him and work to your credit?"

Her lips pressed into a tight line. "My mother's name would also benefit. She was a well known singer and dancer in Sweden." She sat up straighter. "I wish to be known as Christine Grendahl."

"No."

"Give me one reason why that name will not work," she insisted. "Is it so wrong to give credit to my mother? She was a singer too! Perhaps I wish to honor her, since I will also sing as she did, and thereby be following in _her_ spotlight…You demand so much from me. Can you not grant me this one simple request?"

Frustrated with her persistence and the distressed shine that now wet her eyes, he growled out an answer, "Very well. I will _consider_ it. I have no intention of arguing about this until sunup - at which time I will expect you to be ready for your first lesson."

She flinched in surprise. "As soon as that? But - what about breakfast? Surely you don't expect me to rouse in the early hours before dawn in order to eat?"

He lifted his brow wryly. "Already playing the role of the overconfident diva?"

"Is that not what you wanted?"

She coolly matched him stare for stare.

"Confidence is a trait you will need in abundance while on stage, but as my pupil I expect docile obedience."

She frowned and looked away without responding and he doubted she would be so submissive. Faced with the fearsome Opera Ghost that would have made anyone else in her position cower in terror, and certainly never speak to him with such venom and fire, Christine yet held her own. His lips twisted in reluctant admiration.

"I will say that I am pleased you have desisted with your foolish rejection of food."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Can you really blame me, monsieur?"

"I would be a beast to do so, but then, that is the entirety of all I am. Do you not agree, mademoiselle? A vile monster that claims his victims and has no right to inhabit the world above with those more deserving. A demon that belongs to this frozen hell. Yes, of course," he said as if answering his own question. "That is all I am to you..."

The agreement always so quick to jump to her lips faltered in a tight throat. His offhand, self-condemning words that had always reinforced her beliefs in his utter wickedness now served to confuse her. The pieces that should fit together with precision convoluted all present knowledge and failed to arrange a picture that made any sense.

He sighed. "A beast I may be, but I'm also your manager and teacher. I will be the one making all decisions with regard to your instruction and career," his tone achieved steady authority. "You are never to eat two hours before a practice, before any performance. To achieve the clarity I demand of your voice you are not to pollute your throat with food of any sort that would interfere with your song. Take your fill tonight, if you are so inclined. Drink nothing but water after you awaken..."

"And am I to begin every morning without breakfast?" she asked in disbelief.

"No. Tomorrow only will I require this of you. Once I have evaluated the scope of all that must be done, you may have your morning tea. Much will be required of you, mademoiselle, make no mistake. You have the disadvantage of being untrained with no more than three months to prepare for the lead of a major production…"

The prospect was daunting, but Christine felt a renewed desire to sing. Since the night she allowed her voice to soar from a vacant stage, the need had rekindled inside her soul, at first no more than a dim ember buried in the ashes of her regret. To hear the Phantom play while she had been bedridden had fanned that ember to a steady flame. She had been an aural witness to his amazing talent as a composer - but still feared that four years was too long to deny her voice, that she had lost what little she knew…

"Have you done this before?" she asked, suddenly unsure of herself. "Made a nobody into a star and in so little time? Can such a task truly be accomplished with any level of satisfaction?" Nervously she plucked at the coverlet. "You heard me that night, on stage. You must know how out of form my voice was…is…how long it's been since I've done this…"

Confusion mellowed the hard edge in his golden eyes, and they softened with what looked like compassion, riveting her to their glow.

"I don't give praise where it is undeserved, mademoiselle. All I have said about the quality of your voice, I meant every word."

"But, honestly, monsieur, I'm not sure I have such ability as you give me credit for. That I can live up to all of what you expect of me - to have never sung professionally and take _the lead_ …_?_"

He held up a hand to halt her anxious words.

"Cease to dwell on such matters..." His voice now caressed her ears, deep and lyrical, a quiet assurance. "Those who treat the grandeur of music as a vague reflection of their form find it impossible to move through the mirror and capture its image. Only to them who inhabit the notes can that world of splendor be opened…think on that, instead."

Christine stared at the Phantom, her heart quickening at his soothing admonition that seemed wrapped in layers of mystery as profound as the man himself … and struck a chord deep within her soul.

He remained unmoving, his eyes a wealth of repressed emotion, then inclined his head in farewell and left the bedchamber.

**xXx**


	29. Chapter 29

**A/N: Thank you wonderful readers for all your support! :) And now…**

* * *

**Chapter XXIX**

.

Christine woke after a night of confused thoughts that eventually dwindled into heavy slumber. Uncertain of the time of day with no windows to reveal the sun or the moon, she noticed a gown laid out over a chair and slipped out of bed to don whatever clothes the Phantom had provided.

The dress of pinstriped silk shimmered like rays of bright and dark silver bordered between navy lines, giving the subtle impression of moonlight on a still pond at dusk. With fitted sleeves that hugged to the elbows and flared softly to the wrists and detailed with navy ribbon at the square-lined décolletage, the day dress had a gentle bustle draped at the back.

She smoothed a hand along its soft folds, impressed with the quality and cut, as fine as anything she had worn at The Grange. Petticoats, stockings, pantalets and chemise lay folded on the padded seat beneath. She was grateful there was no corset or the usual bulky round cushion that strapped at the derriere to push out the skirt, even if her natural form wouldn't do much to help bring the soft bustle to stark prominence. Absent of the boned device and padding, she felt confident she could dress without Jolene's aid. Even that small comfort gave her a much-needed sense of independence since she was nothing more than the Phantom's captive.

With her hair a mass of dirty tangles Christine longed for a bath. She moved toward the chamber she had earlier noticed near the privy room, surprised to see Jolene there, pulling a small lever in the wall. Water rushed from the rock into a long copper tub and Christine watched in amazement.

"Is it morning then?" she asked.

Jolene turned and looked at her oddly. "Oui, mademoiselle. The sun has risen. I was soon coming to wake you."

"How could you possibly know what time of day it is?"

"The lake, mademoiselle."

"The lake?"

"There is a chamber - where you first spoke to Jacques and I. The chamber that is near your room. Above the lake is a hole in the cave ceiling that leads to the outside."

Christine absently nodded, recalling how she had seen daylight shimmering on the water.

She moved closer, curious as she watched Jolene at her task. "How does that work?"

Jolene glanced up. "Behind this wall is a rock basin of water that feeds from a pipe in the lake. Beneath are coals that keep it heated. The bathtub in your chamber has the same. Whenever you wish to bathe, you only have to pull this down…" She pointed to a lever near a spout where water that steamed still poured into the basin. "When the water fills as you wish it, pull this back up to stop the flow. When you finish with your bath, there is a plug, here," she motioned to the foot of the tub. "Pull the chain to break the seal and the water will drain through another pipe."

Christine never had seen anything like it but among many other names, the Phantom called himself inventor. Had he created this? At memory of his reason for being secreted down here she decided he must have - she doubted he had brought anyone else to his dark hideaway.

"I see. Thank you for your help. I won't be needing anything else if, if the Phantom should need you for … for whatever reason."

Ill at ease, Christine smiled at the girl, still uncertain how she fit into his life. Jolene looked at her a little strangely, as if uncertain what to make of her either, then exited the chamber …

… which Christine suddenly realized had no door.

Nervously she looked around the sparse area. Except for a small table with bath supplies and towels, the only other item in the room was a thin, black velvet drape that hung from a circular rod above. She assumed it trapped in the heat rising from the copper tub in the otherwise cold chamber. She hesitated in sudden indecision. Staring into the clear, inviting water, she imagined how good it would feel against her skin after being so long without any such comfort …

The drape would have to double for modesty's sake too.

Before she changed her mind - fervently hoping Jolene had gone to inform the master of the lair that Christine now occupied this room so he would keep his distance, but nervous that she hadn't and wishing now she had remembered to ask her to do so - Christine hauled her shift over her head and dropped it to the floor. Hurriedly she stepped into the water and pulled the drape around the tub in one hasty motion, the wooden rungs sliding swiftly over metal and creating a raucous noise that surely could be heard from the lake chamber. _That_ would warn him she was there and to stay away …

Her heart beating fast, she put a hand to the wall and eased herself into the tub. She took slow, deep breaths to relax, uncertain why she should feel so frantic, at the same time aware of the cause. Her mind slipped to another day weeks ago when she had planned to bathe, and she clenched her teeth and closed her eyes at the abhorrent memory, unwilling to play victim to it any longer. Henri was dead and buried. The Phantom, for all his despicable acts, was nothing like her abusive, lecherous cousin had been. The Phantom could have harmed her many times, could have forced himself on her in her unconscious state and had done the exact opposite, even forcing distance between them. As odd as the truth was under the circumstances of her being his captive and threatened by his demands … she felt she could trust him.

Christine briefly laughed aloud, then shook her head with little humor, wondering if the musty, underground air was confusing all rational thought. Regardless of such startling knowledge, because of her horrific experience that last day in England she still couldn't curb a sudden panic when he drew too close in his sardonic stalking, and sternly told herself panic was _all_ she ever felt. Any incongruous feelings stemmed from confusion and temporary lunacy and nothing more.

Torches blazed from two adjoining rock walls and produced a mild yellow glow through the material but provided enough light to see. Forcing herself to relax, Christine dipped her head back, allowing the restorative water to soak her scalp then rested her neck against the smooth wooden rim. The heat soaked into her skin and soothed every knot of tension beneath the surface. The tub stretched so far that her legs were fully extended and she realized he would need it that long to accommodate his great height. An additional warmth having nothing to do with her bath suffused her to the very core at the unwanted thought of him where she now sat. Quickly she forced the unbidden image away, setting her mind to her task of cleanliness…

For the first time since she'd been brought underground she was beginning to feel human again and picked up a slab of soap lathering it over her hair and body.

.**  
**

**xXx**

.

The Phantom had spent the nighttime hours surveying the actions of those in the theater and now paced near the dais, in the level area between staircases, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

So, the incompetent imbeciles still planned to defy him? From the conversations he'd overheard, the managers had discussed La Carlotta taking the lead for his opera. Fools! Did they believe he would ever allow such a travesty? And where the hell was _his_ future prima donna? It was almost three quarters of an hour past the time he'd told her to be here!

No one was where they should be. The boy was likely off on one of his adventuresome haunts of pretense, Jolene was absent and must have gone above to lose herself in the busy streets of the market to purchase food. He only hoped she had enough sense to stay away from the hotel...

"Miss Daae!"

He marched to the bedchamber and hesitated near the threshold. He had granted Christine privacy but without Jolene to check on her, he had little choice but to investigate.

"Mademoiselle Daae - answer me! Are you there?"

When no response came he entered the bedchamber. He took in the sight of the bunched coverlet and sheet before moving to the side of the bed in frustration. Had she gone back to sleep? Had Jolene not roused her before dawn as he'd told her to do last night?

He pulled the cover away, only to find the mattress empty. It was then he noticed that the clothing he'd told Jolene to set out still lay over a chair, and the pieces brutally clicked into place.

"Blast you - no!"he growled.

That first week of her pathetic escape attempts had him rush to the passageway behind the chamber - the only corridor in all of his underground world, besides the canal beyond the closed portcullis, that led to the world above.

Swift and silent, he hurried through the tunnel, grinding his teeth that he had been played for a fool against her shrewd treachery. Once more, he had believed her deceptive lies masquerading as quiet sincerity, had foolishly acknowledged her surrender and that she had finally accepted his terms…

With clenched fists he moved toward the passage that led to a staircase above, stopping short when he heard her softly humming from behind. Startled, he slowly retraced his steps and stood immobile at the entry of his bath chamber.

He stared at the closed drape pulled all the way around his copper tub. Steam trailed upward to the cave ceiling. The material billowed out as an elbow knocked against it and the Phantom knew he had found his little songbird.

A hot torrent of desire raced through his blood and he clutched one edge of the rock to prevent himself from moving forward. He continued to stare at the drape, able to see the hazy silhouette of her form that the strong torchlight brought out. Her humming dwindled into silent song, forced and anxious, stopping then starting over again as if she tested her skill and found it sadly wanting…

A foolish thought when her voice had been the closest to perfection he had ever known.

An unexpected surge of tenderness had him push away from the wall and quickly return to the main chamber.

.

**xXx**

.

Once Christine hurriedly dressed, she toweled her hair dry and tied it back with a narrow black ribbon that had also been provided. She smoothed nervous hands down the front of her dress.

The blissful water had been difficult to leave and so soothing she had drifted into a light slumber. When she jerked awake and realized how much time must have passed, she'd quickly exited her bath, surprised but relieved not to have heard him storm down the corridor into the room and demand her immediate presence.

At the entry of the bedchamber, she nervously looked into the main room toward the Phantom. He stood tall with his back to her, looking at an open scroll in his hands, and she took advantage of his ignorance in her presence to observe the width of his strong shoulders and lean form. Again, he wore a waistcoat, obviously considering her lessons a formality. Even dressed as a gentleman of distinction he possessed a natural, lissome grace that could only be described as dangerous and untamed. The sight of him made her heart skip a nervous beat.

"You're late."

His deep voice came soft and startled her from taking the next breath. He rolled the curled parchment back together and slowly turned to face her. From his silk ascot to the high polish of his shoes, he was the picture of elegant refinement while his golden eyes beyond the mask glittered wild.

"I - I'm sorry," she stuttered and swallowed hard. "I didn't intend to be. Late. It won't happen again."

He gave a short nod and approached her. She no longer feared him but something in his cool, restrained manner made her feel like she should run.

He stopped before her and held out his hand. "Shall we?"

She looked down at his hand, watching as hers rose to meet it. He had touched her, carried her, held her, but the simple contact of his cool fingers wrapping around hers brought a tingle of sheer warmth that flowed beneath her skin.

It wasn't the first time she'd felt it…

She flinched in shock, ready to pull back but he tightened his hold.

"We have lost more than an hour, mademoiselle. It is time to proceed."

Christine blew out a little breath, refusing to give way to any unease, and gave a slight nod. The Phantom led her up the stairs and brought her to stand beside the organ, then moved to take a seat on the bench. She clutched the wrist of her hand that still tingled behind her.

"First we will commence with a series of simple, basic scales to evaluate the range of your voice. These exercises will be part of your daily warm-up program." He paused to look at her, and thinking he expected a response she again nodded. "I will play a chord and you will sing in that key with a series of short vowel sounds." He struck a chord and demonstrated with his own rich voice then again looked up at her. "Are you ready to proceed, mademoiselle?"

Christine nervously licked her lips and nodded.

She focused on the portcullis as he took her through the first octave. Her gaze wandered to his lean hands moving steadily up along the keyboard as she answered the notes. His hands were pale and white like the rest of his skin, his fingers long and limber, strong, those of an artist, their span easily stretching from note to note… She watched them move higher along the keys and her attention lifted to his eyes, noting that he stared intently at her. The awe in their golden depths shone with each progression, his clear approval a warm glow inside her soul.

He pulled his hands away from the keys, never breaking eye contact with her.

"Amazing…"

His faint whisper brought her attention to his mouth, and her heart gave a jolt to see what the mask revealed of his lips turned up in a disbelieving smile. A _true_ smile, one she had never seen before…

"I knew you had potential, and I was not wrong."

Her own lips curled up in relieved gratitude. The harmonious moment lasted only a matter of seconds before he grew serious again.

"We have a great deal of work ahead of us, make no mistake, but the canvas to create the masterpiece is present." His golden eyes lowered down her form, fully taking her in, then again lifted to her face, giving her the oddest feeling that she'd just been branded. "There are times you will curse me. Without a doubt, I will curse you. I demand all of what you have to offer - and beyond anything you think you can give."

She fidgeted, pulling at her fingers behind her back. "First you seek to encourage me, then you provoke me to dread the experience?"

His brow lifted in all seriousness. "I want you aware of the entirety of what our association will entail so there will be no misunderstandings. I am not a patient man when it comes to my music."

She recalled the irate demands that Meg had told her the Opera Ghost made of the managers in his notes, and she had seen with her own eyes his perilous warning to those in the theater. She shivered at the memory, but one look into his steady eyes had her nod, certain of what she wanted. To sing again and be given the chance to perform before an audience.

"Then, monsieur, I consider myself forewarned. I am ready when you are."

Christine reminded herself of her brave words numerous times as the morning progressed.

Any outward admiration of her talent dissolved as he transformed from mystifying Phantom into austere teacher. He took her through further exercises, first demonstrating how each was to be performed. He then told her to sing the aria he heard on the night she had fretfully taken the empty stage and he discovered she could sing.

"No," she said without thinking, horror gripping her heart at the idea of reliving those words.

"No?" He looked at her as if he had not heard her. "Have I not made our positions clear? I make the orders, you will obey them. Sing the aria."

"I - I can't, monsieur. Please don't make me."

That song - _that special verse_ - belonged to Erik alone. She had sung it for him when they stood under the stars and pledged themselves to one another one windy night on the Summit, and later she had sung to him alone in a darkened theater. Only and always for him. Her love for him had brought her back to this point, but she could not endure the anguish that singing the song would bring. Her choice to release her past was much too fresh to escape any hope that the poignant lyrics would not affect her. And the last thing she wanted was to collapse in tears again in front of this man.

"Do not lie and tell me you don't know the words, mademoiselle," he said very quietly, staring at the keys. "I have heard you sing them."

"Yes, I know. I do know them, but - I just, I cannot sing that song again. Please, monsieur. Any other song you wish me to sing, I will - _but not that one_."

"The selection is not up to you." His eyes were brittle chips of golden glass as he snapped them her way, the level of his voice rising. "What I tell you to sing, _**you will sing!**_"

Tears she couldn't control brimmed to her eyes at the thought. "_**I won't!**_ I can't - _not that one!_"

He slammed his hands on discordant notes and shot to his feet. "You _**do not**_ have the option to choose!"

Emotion choking her throat, the wretched tears spilling onto her cheeks, she could only shake her head in angry, hopeless frustration.

Trembling all over, she clutched the edge of the organ…could not do this. Needed escape from those piercing, all-seeing eyes. Not yet strong enough to run all the way to her bedchamber, she whirled from him and rushed to his.

"MISS DAAE!" His voice thundered through the cavern. "COME BACK HERE!"

She knew he could easily catch up to her if he tried and prayed he would again choose to be distant until she could pull herself together. Her legs felt too shaky to flee down a corridor the length and destination of which she didn't know, her first frantic urge to lose herself in the darkness she abhorred so no one could ever find her.

Instead, Christine ran to his bed and fell to it, grabbing up the pillow and burying her face in it so he wouldn't hear her misery. She struggled to be silent, relieved when the stillness in the room lingered, assuring her that he had not followed.

A low rumble filled her ears, the mattress near her head softly giving way. The warm feel of silk brushed against her neck. Confused, she lifted her head from the pillow to see…

The sight of unblinking golden eyes within a smooth canvas of glossy black that now moved steadily toward her face made her gape in utter disbelief...

.

**xXx**


	30. Chapter 30

**A/N: Thank you to those who've given me encouragement, reviews and comments - all of it is much appreciated - to know you guys are enjoying this -and hearing from you gives me the needed boost to keep writing the story. :) … And now…**

* * *

**Chapter XXX**

.

The Phantom clutched the rim of the organ as he stood and glared at the engraved pipes that ran in a gleaming row of stair-step descent beyond it. The top of each one impressed with his symbol of a skull and the letters O. G., they proved his ownership, as did the scrolled golden motif of the pipe organ and myriad items throughout his lair.

To claim possession of matter that could not talk back or rebel was no challenge.

Christine, on the other hand, was proving to be a significant difficulty.

Every shred of patience he exerted since he almost stormed unaware like a bumbling fool into her bathing ritual had disintegrated at her obstinate refusal that had been accompanied by the soft, sad look in her eyes. His desire to sear that boy from her heart had propelled him to insist she sing the damned song. He had hoped the lyrics of the first verses would remind her that her past four years in England lay forever buried, that her destiny now belonged to him and with him and no one else - and the time had come to bid a permanent farewell to her life with the insufferable Vicomte.

All of the Phantom's motives were worthy of his aim to make her into a star. At the same time he'd been unable to deny the molten flash of lingering resentment that had wanted to see her suffer for her betrayal. Conversely, upon seeing the wretched tears that had welled in her haunted eyes, rather than experience the aloof satisfaction he sought for, instead he had felt the extent of her pain.

_"Damn you!" _he seethed quietly.

With one sweep of his arm, he knocked papers and candelabrum free of the organ, slapping his clenched fist to its glossy surface. Uncertain of who he cursed - her, the boy, himself - he gritted his teeth, his eyes moist, and desperately reached for that necessary plane of calm indifference. Not for the first time since he'd brought her here, he questioned the success of his vengeful plot and if he could really carry it out to the finish.

Christine suddenly cried out and his heart froze.

Without thought, he pushed away from the organ and raced for his bedchamber. At the entrance, he stopped in shocked confusion at the unexpected sight of Christine, smiling and giggling and crying, while clutching his cat to her bosom.

It was the most animated he had seen her since she'd come to his caverns, and he could only stare in wonder at the baffling change. With no traces of her former despair, her eyes sparkled with a joyful excitement he'd last seen four years ago.

She moved her cheek from pressing against silken fur and smiled up at him.

He felt shaken by the magnificence of that one sweet expression, by the eager tilt of her lips and the bright shine of her teeth and eyes; not once since she'd been in his underground dwelling had she looked at him in such an open, receptive manner.

"Where did you find him?" she asked, a lilt to her voice that minutes ago had been laden with distress.

"Faust?" He looked with confusion at the black cat.

"Faust? _That_ is what you call him?" she scoffed, her manner glib. "The namesake of a man who sold his soul to the devil. No, no, no. That doesn't fit him at all. This is Mozart. Named after a reclusive and creative musical genius…" Her eyes grew somewhat distant, then she shook herself out of whatever poignant thought had captured her. "This is _my _cat."

"_Your_ cat?"

"Yes, of course. I would know Mozart anywhere. His golden eyes and that thick, silky black fur. The little scar he got here from a fight with another barn cat. Do you see?" She giggled and held the sleek cat up, running her finger above its nose as if the Phantom could actually see the hairline mark from across the room, where he still stood. "I brought him with me, from home. In England. Mozart escaped from the hotel one night almost three years ago while I attended the opera - a hotel close to the opera house, I don't remember the name -"

"I know the hotel," he cut her off curtly.

The Phantom stared hard at her. Despite the flame of bitter resentment again flickering to life inside his soul, he felt bewildered by her revelation.

He had never forgotten that night, no matter his countless attempts to burn the memory from his brain. It was the night he brutally confronted the truth that he foolishly hoped had all been some malicious mistake, some cruel lie…the night every remaining fragment of faith in her supposed eternal devotion had been shattered and ground to dust.

The same night he had first come across the children's path. Because of _that cat_…

That cat…

…that had been Christine's.

The irony rocked him to the depths of his black soul.

"Monsieur?" She looked at him in some concern. "Are you alright?"

He did not doubt her claim to the small beast. Faust had shown no patient affinity to be coddled by anyone but him, barely tolerating Jacques's overly eager to the point of violent affections. Yet the cat had allowed Christine to cradle and baby him upon sight, his rumbling purr proof of his contentment…

Christine stared at the silent man across from her. The mask hid most of his features, his stare blank within its sockets. All she could see of his face was the partial curve of his upper lip down to his neck below, but she sensed his absolute shock - a match to her own - in every nuance of his form. He stood motionless, his hands clenched; yet the angry glint that had been in his eyes had disappeared, and for that she was grateful.

"You have had a difficult first lesson," he said quietly, his tone giving nothing away. "I will see to your morning tea before we proceed further."

The Phantom left Christine to play with the cat. Each step he took away from her felt no more grounded in reality.

His mind shooting a dozen different directions at once, though he dared not grasp one issue to dwell on for fear of losing his fragile grasp on apathy, the Phantom struggled to clear his mind and set about with the monotony of everyday ritual in food preparation. Once finished, he felt better able to manage the situation and summoned her to join him in the main room.

He watched as she carried the cat with her to the dining table where he had laid out tea along with a plate of _pain perdu_, the French term for "lost bread" soaked and fried in milk and egg. Even the food fit the occasion for what he now felt, lost and bemused, and he hoped the feeling would quickly pass. Bland disinterest was harder to maintain while walking around in an emotional fog of shock.

She glanced at him then at the plate, cup, and saucer. "Are you not going to eat, monsieur?"

"Non," he said giving no explanation and watching as she fingered the edge of a slice of toast. "I assure you, mademoiselle, neither the food nor the tea has been drugged or tampered with in a nefarious manner."

At his dry assurance, she gave a slight nod without looking at him and picked up the toast, giving it another uncertain look before taking a bite. She gave a soft sound of approval, briefly glancing up at him with a softer nod. "It's very good. You made this?"

"I have needed to learn to do a great many things in my life of solitude."

The Phantom stood across the table from where she sat holding the cat in her lap as if it were her child and feeding it tidbits of her meal as she also ate. He vaguely wondered if after this day the cat would care any longer for his main diet of cavern rodents.

"How did you find him?" she asked suddenly.

He tensed, cautious of his answer. "He found me."

She lifted her eyes to his, slightly nodding in confusion as if trying to take in his words but unable to comprehend the simplicity of them.

"This is just … incredible. I cannot believe that Mozart found his way underground to your home and has been here all this time." She looked askance as if she wished to add more but was suddenly nervous. She glanced back up. "May I…may I keep him with me in my chamber?"

He inclined his head in a brusque nod. "Faust comes and goes when and where he pleases. He's kept on no leash, nor is he restrained in a cage. If he chooses to stay with you in your chamber, I'll not prevent it."

She wrinkled her nose a little at his name for the cat, but her easy smile did not ebb that she now turned toward the small beast she lifted to eye level. "Do you hear that, Mozart, my little friend? You're going to be my chamber mate again. Oh, how happy I am to have found you!"

She kissed the feline's nose then hugged him close.

He never thought he would be jealous of a cat.

"When you are finished with your meal, we will resume the day's lesson." He inclined his head in a stiff nod and returned to his seat of musical refuge to bury unwanted feelings and lose them in the paper sarcophagus of his work.

**x**

Christine watched the Phantom as he sat in silhouette near his pipe organ and scratched notes onto thin pieces of parchment. Idly she stroked the complacent cat that had settled in cozy warmth in the cradle of her lap. She took her time sipping the spiced black tea but could not continue to delay the inevitable. Even across the considerable distance of the chamber she sensed his impatience build in the tense set of his shoulders and abrupt movement of his hands. She lifted a softly growling Mozart so that she could stand, setting the highly disturbed cat in the chair with a conciliatory stroke along its spine.

No longer in fear of the inscrutable man who presided over the lair, but still feeling a need for caution, Christine warily approached and stood on the outer fringes of where he sat. His pen never wavered, continuing its rapid scratching over parchment before he finally set it down and turned toward her. Tense seconds elapsed before he spoke.

"Come here."

Two simple words quietly delivered. Why they should so abruptly rivet her senses and flush her with warmth she failed to understand.

She closed the distance and he looked up. "You can read."

She nodded at his question that came across as more of a statement, and he handed her a few pieces of parchment.

"This is the first half of Act One. Commit it to memory."

She looked at the words he had scrawled onto the first page, immediately taking note of their bold, creative strokes. A twinge of confusion made her pause. The letters were familiar … but not. Their composition, the wide loops and bold flair should slant to the right, not the left. She glanced at the pen he held in his left hand. Erik had written with his right hand…

She shook herself out of such foolish speculation, determined to stop her crazed obsession with constantly comparing the two men - perhaps all composers wrote with a similar artistic style - and she scanned the first two paragraphs of choral dialogue and stage direction.

"You may read that on your own time." He set down his pen. "For now, I wish to acquaint you with the full story of the opera …" He left his chair and motioned to it. "Sit."

At his abrupt order Christine curbed an equally terse reply that she was not a dog to be ordered to obey and took the chair he vacated. She listened, fascination replacing affront as he unfurled his sad tale. At first she found it difficult to focus on the meaning of his words and not solely on the rich timbre of his voice. He slowly paced before her as he elegantly stressed certain elements of the story with his long, slender hands. His unique, dark version of the famous _Don Giovanni_ that Wolfgang Mozart had memorialized soon captured her complete attention. However, one matter disturbed her, and she aired it once he relayed the final act.

"The gypsy girl - Aminta …"

"Yes?" he snapped.

"Well," she said carefully, noting his swift rise to impatience. "She seems rather … cruel."

"She is." His smile was bitter.

She frowned. "But there doesn't appear to be one morsel of human kindness in her. She is cold and calculating and vindictive for a lead, and it really makes me wonder why this Don Juan person would even _want_ to seduce her and keep her with him."

"He has been deceived into believing a lie."

"Deceived? Even a blind man can see how horrid she is! He's not very intelligent…"

He crossed his arms over his middle. "You question my skill in the craft?"

Likewise she folded her arms across her chest. "Am I not allowed to have an opinion?"

He snorted. "An opinion from an amateur. As if that should matter to me. The theater is full of them and I don't care for what they have to say either." He brusquely turned away, paced back and forth twice, then faced her again. "Tell me, have _you_ ever written an opera?"

"No, of course not. But that doesn't mean I don't recognize and understand the emotion of the human heart! This -" she flicked her fingers against the parchment, "while it _is_ a remarkable story…"

"Yes?" He arched his brow and narrowed his eyes, waiting for the anvil to drop.

"…has no soul," she continued after a short hesitation. "No warmth or genuine feeling -"

He barked out a curt laugh. "You speak to me of genuine feeling?" he raged. "_You? _What do YOU know of _genuine _feeling_?_"

She regarded him in baffled disbelief. "I know what it is to love! To care about someone so deeply and completely that they compose every breath you take -"

"_All_ _women_ are nothing more than cold-blooded serpents that strike to the heart of man with the sweetest of venom and poison his soul with their destructive lies!"

Christine flinched as if he'd struck her, feeling his insult as if it were directed solely to her. She barely managed to bridle her own rising irritation.

"Monsieur…" Her voice came low and controlled and as brittle as ice. "Perhaps _some_ women are unworthy of respect and praise, but certainly that does not make all of us budding Medusas."

He narrowed his eyes but before he could hurl a cutting rejoinder, she grabbed courage and resolve to her like a breastplate of armor and returned to the initial subject at hand.

"I'm not a professional in the skill of composing an opera, that is true - and perhaps you consider my view to be of insignificant value and hold no merit. But I _have_ attended various operas, and I speak from the standpoint of a member of the audience and of what would be entertaining _to me_. And I say again, that this -" she motioned to his opera, "this Aminta has no true depth of feeling. She's shallow and cold. And why must the end for them be so horribly tragic? That she would treat him with such a heartless lack of sympathy, pretending interest, and that he would then disguise himself and abduct her - and she willingly enter his trap with her own contemptible goals in mind - only to have it all end in betrayal as they both tragically fall to their deaths with nothing resolved between them - no remorse or forgiveness or redemption? I ask you, monsieur, what sort of ending is that?"

He scoffed out a short laugh. "One with an important moral to bear in mind."

"What 'moral'?"

"That professed love bound up in the promise of fidelity is shallow and inconstant and deceitful, its trappings injurious. To toy with such a ridiculously romanticized idea is comparable to driving a dagger through one's heart and expecting to come out unscathed."

His low, fierce words brought the unwanted image of him standing distraught before her while trying to force her hand to spear him with his blade. She blinked and forced a reply through a suddenly tight throat.

"You write from experience…"

"What?" He turned on her suddenly, moving closer, but she did not recoil or falter in her revelation.

"This opera, that awful statue by your bed, your low opinion of womankind … someone hurt you. And you have found satisfaction in writing this magnificent work of total despair."

She stated the words in a steady, quiet voice, certain she'd found her answer while wondering what manner of woman could have delved into the closed stone fortress of his heart and found entrance, even welcome there, to claim the love of such a dark, complicated man. To secure such a rare place would be eternal; she was sure of it. He was not one given to trust and would not grant access again. The thought that someone had found a way in only to wound him from ever having feelings for another unsettled her. For the briefest of moments Christine wondered what it would feel like to have been that woman loved by this man.

His golden eyes blazed into hers. "You have no idea what you speak of, Miss Daae." His words came strained and forceful, underscoring her conviction. "I am _an artiste_, a composer and musician. This opera is a work of fiction, a tale of make believe, and nothing more ..."

"A tale that seems entirely too dark and morose for an evening's entertainment," she insisted, deciding it wise to dismiss his motive for writing such an opus.

"_Don Juan Triumphant _is not a light, comedic operetta. It is an _op-e-ra. _A dramatic work that ends in fatal tragedy for the lovers, as all operas tend to do."

Christine thought about the few theatrical performances she attended with Raoul and Arabella while on their travels, including the last opera she had seen at the Paris opera house. _Tristan and Isolde, Mireille_, and _Mefistofele_ - all of them had one trait in common, the Phantom was correct. The stories all ended tragically for the lovelorn couples, leaving her with tears of empathy in her eyes.

She shook her head in mild exasperation. "Oh, very well. I yield. But I still believe there is one essential element missing in this opera that was present in all other operas I have seen."

He inhaled audibly and blew out his breath through his teeth. "And exactly what do you perceive that to be, Miss Daae?"

"Love."

He looked at her a somber moment then laughed in mockery. "Love," he repeated. "Have I not just shared with you the moral of this story? Its entire focus is on _love_ - and the reason not to encourage or engage in such a futile and potentially dangerous emotion."

She shook her head in frustration. "I speak of a true and abiding, unconditional love. Not the shallow nonsense you have Aminta portray. Or the lustful aspirations of your Don Juan. If you want your audience to care and be moved by your story, you must have the characters show true devotion to one another at some point. Not just show that poor, misguided man as being completely obsessed with a flighty gypsy girl."

"He is _not_ obsessed, nor is he misguided. And he certainly feels a great deal more than mere lustful aspirations for Aminta."

"It doesn't appear that way from how you described him."

"So you profess to be a critic as well as a singer?" he sneered.

"I never professed to be a singer - that was _your_ idea."

"You _are_ a singer, mademoiselle, but leave the contents of the opus to a true artist in the domain of theatrical composition."

She gave a stiff nod. "As you wish, monsieur."

Christine stemmed a swift tide of prideful hurt, uncertain why she should feel so offended and upset that he would discredit her helpful suggestions. And yet, surely she could expect no less from the obstinate man who posed as a fearsome ghost, insisting on his own way, to the point of hostility toward all those in the opera house.

Her lesson resumed, awkward and tense. Much to her surprise and relief he did not again force her to sing the aria reserved in her heart for Erik. Instead, he instructed her to sing a well known hymn she remembered from church services, then an aria she knew from another opera, a song in a higher octave.

While she sang, he played, nodding once in awhile to himself when she did brave a look in his direction, and noted him staring at the pages of his musical composition. Never again at her.

Throughout the remainder of the lesson, the Phantom rarely glanced her way except when instructing her to stand taller and not let her weary shoulders droop. At long last, he took his hands from the keys.

"That is all for now," he announced. "You may return to your chamber."

She hesitated with her initial reaction of swiftly fleeing from his chill presence. "_My_ chamber?"

"Yes, Miss Daae. Your chamber. I consider you fully recovered. As long as you cease with any further reckless stunts of escape and starvation, I see no reason for you to revisit my bed."

Embarrassed warmth flushed her face at his blunt words, though with his clipped emphasis on the last ones it was clear she'd become a hindrance and he coveted his return to privacy.

"I vowed I wouldn't try to run again," she said stiffly. "And I won't refuse any more meals."

After being so weak and helpless while fighting the infection, and living through what had felt like eternity in a hellish world ten times more frightening than her present set of circumstances, Christine had painfully learned her lesson.

He curtly nodded. "I am relieved you have come to your senses. You may go."

He still did not look at her, obviously still upset with her for speaking her mind about his wretched opera.

Pressing her lips into a thin line, she walked to the dining table to scoop up her cat. Awakened a second time, Mozart gave a soft protesting growl but didn't struggle to jump from her arms. Christine glanced one last time at the Phantom's rigid back then gladly left his chamber.

During the familiar walk down the torch-lit corridor she quietly fumed to herself. He could have at least told her if she'd done well but had given her not even one word of praise or encouragement. His face had been a dual mask, the leather one he wore above a stone expression that was yet another covering which barred all discernment of feeling.

"A simple word of kindness wouldn't have killed him," she muttered, then stopped immobile with shock at the open door of her chamber.

Mozart wiggled in her suddenly loose hold and jumped down, a blur of black fur whisking past the bed. The bed was the only item in the room unchanged. The rest of the room had undergone a startling transformation.

Across from the princess bed, in one corner twin stakes of steady torchlight glowed above each end of a carved dressing table, complete with a trio of round mirrors. On its glossy surface was laid out every convenience of luxury conceivable, from a silver-handled brush to a cut crystal bottle of perfume. A small cushioned chair sat on an ivory pile rug before it. To the side of the dresser was the trunk she once refused and against an adjoining wall another torch hung next to an engraved armoire of matching wood, which she assumed contained additional gowns. A dressing screen emblazoned with the image of an exotic peacock stood in one corner. The added firelight illumined the room, bringing out silver veins of sparkle from the ore within the cave walls. No longer grim, the chamber had taken on an enchantment she had never believed possible…

Taking a seat at the edge of the mattress, Christine picked up a wooden figurine of a faceless angel that had been left on the small table, the statuette a match to the boy's. She ran her index finger along flowing lines of long curls the craftsman had meticulously crafted. Dazedly she looked around the greatly changed room and shook her head.

"Who _are_ you?" she whispered.

She wondered if she would ever know the full truth about her new teacher and realized to her shock that, more than anything - she wished for exactly that.

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**xXx**


	31. Chapter 31

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews! (note: I have been getting so many requests for the sequel of The Treasure, here, at my Youtube and deviantART accounts, and elsewhere - and since there is so much interest, I have embarked on the story at long last. That said, expect The Claim to start being posted some time this month if you're one of those who wrote me. :) I often tend to work more on stories that I can see have greater interest - it inspires me to write in it, and reviews, PMs, etc., are all that let me know that - so if you are interested in a story be sure and let me know, at least somehow (if you're review-shy). Else I might leave it for awhile if it appears interest has faded (not meaning I would abandon it for good) - but I would put it aside for a bit to work on those that I can tell readers want to see more of.) I can see this story still has interest, so not to worry, I'm still writing it. ;-) …And now…**

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**Chapter XXXI**

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Raoul paced the study, now and then stopping to glare out the window.

It had been a fortnight, over that, and he had not heard from his courier yet. It had been _one full month_ since he had let her slip quietly and furtively from his sight. He should have told the boy to follow rather than hold off and send him later. Hell, he should have followed her himself!

A brisk knock on the door that stood ajar startled him from his dour musings. He turned to see Arabella there, outfitted in a new riding habit. Her smile was bright, her eyes merry.

"Good morning, cousin," she trilled softly, "I came to ask you to take a turn around the estate with me. It's such a lovely day - at least it's no longer raining - and the horses, no doubt, are restless and need their exercise."

She looked charming, in shades of dark blue, the color more flattering than the dull browns and grays she often favored. The thought led him to acknowledge once again that he'd been lax in helping to find her a proper suitor, as Father had requested of him, and her past twenty-one. His entire life felt bogged in an upheaval of waiting. He barely shook his head at her query, his somber gaze falling to his desk and a stack of missives he had yet to answer.

"Not today, Arabella. I have business to attend."

"Oh - poppycock."

At her abrupt and rather shocking rejoinder for a lady, he glanced up. "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me." She swept inside, offering the room a derisive glance, then speared him with determined gray eyes. "You have barely budged from this study - from _that window_ - for days. _Days_, Raoul…and now drinking? So early?" She came up beside him and slipped the snifter of brandy from his hand, setting it on the desk, then looked out the glass pane that fronted the courtyard. "Unless 'business' is to oversee that the sun rises and sets at its proper course of time, I cannot conceive what would rivet you to guard this post with such stout diligence." She smiled in clear question.

He sighed. "I await a missive."

"Did Grayson tender his resignation that you must now answer the door and conduct business with the messengers?"

"This is personal."

"Oh." Her expression softened in sudden understanding. "Christine."

"Yes," he said more tersely than he intended. Arabella didn't flinch but he struggled to calm himself, not wishing to take out his angst on his cousin. "She was correct in what she told us. Elizabeth's father has taken it upon himself to make inquiries. It seems he wasn't pleased with the manner in which the constable ordered the investigation. Everyone at the Heights has been questioned again, likely everyone in all the surrounding provinces will be interrogated…"

"You?"

He gave a curt nod. "Our paths crossed on the road to Gimmerton yesterday. He explained away the encounter as being a coincidence, but I have my doubts. He then asked a number of meddlesome questions, mostly about Christine. I told him nothing except what we agreed on. That since her return to the Heights, we've seen little of her and less after Henley was born. Such a cold fish -" He snorted out a dry, humorless laugh. "He didn't even ask about the boy or seem upset to learn that Berta had taken his grandson to her sister's, to live there. All that's important to his way of thinking is this damnable investigation…"

He muttered something foul under his breath, unfit for a young lady's ears, then turned his head to look at her again. "I sense he didn't believe my parody of the truth. I was never a good liar, Arabella. Don't be surprised if he should weasel his way into your company soon. I'm surprised he hasn't yet beat a path to our door."

She patted his arm in consolation. "Don't worry about me, cousin. The headmistress at the academy could have put the most accomplished barrister to shame, what with her stern and demanding inquiries with regard to her silly little rules broken - which I learned to evade."

"What? Her or her 'silly little rules'?" Raoul found himself asking though he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

She smiled. "I will manage the bulldog inspector. Please don't torture yourself over what happened. We did all we could. This unfortunate incident will pass in time and all will be forgotten."

"Will it?" Raoul scowled. "The local constable gave up the search as pointless, but _this man -_ he is ruthless in his pursuit. He told me he always gets his felon and will devote every waking moment to this case too. He didn't mention Christine by name, but the threat was in his eyes. God, Arabella, what if he does find her?"

His mind sped down another trail and he turned with it, pacing a short distance away.

"What if she never arrived at the opera house? What if I sent her into an even worse situation? I sent her off alone, Arabella. _Alone!_" He groaned at his lack of good judgment that had been bombarded by the women's frivolous logic at the time. "She has never gone anywhere unaccompanied and I sent her to a city foreign to her - with _people_ foreign to her! Speaking a language she _doesn't even know_!"

"We _all_ agreed this way was best," she stated in a calm voice of reason. "Christine chose her destination, knowing she couldn't stay in England. Deep down, you know that too. We had no time to plan."

Despite the ring of truth in Arabella's words, he shook his head in misery. "If anything happens to her…"

"Christine is an intelligent young woman. She has proven her merit in handling difficulty - she is no longer a child in need of pampering or saving. She will be alright, Raoul." Her eyes stressed her words, their quiet, bold emphasis almost calming him.

The clatter of hoof beats on stone had them both turn to the window to stare. A lone rider approached the courtyard and dismounted.

Arabella was fast on Raoul's heels as he hurried to the back of the house where he found his courier seated at the table inside the kitchen. Dirty from his travels, a lanky boy of sixteen, with large hands that shook around a pewter mug, jumped to his feet and regarded his master with an anxious nod of deference. The cook paid no one any mind, hustling about in preparing a plate for the lad.

"You have news for me?" Raoul waved for the exhausted boy to sit. He did and took a swallow of his ale to remove the road dust of travel from his throat.

Raoul impatiently waited for what he had hoped for weeks to hear.

"Aye, sir," the lad hoarsely spoke, still breathless from his ride. "I asked around the place … like you told me. There was talk of a ghost … accidents that happened and such -"

Raoul's heart ceased a beat. "Christine was in an accident?"

"No sir, leastways no one knows of any she might have been in…"

Raoul clenched his teeth, just managing not to wrest the bread from the boy's hand as he watched him wolf down a bite once the cook set his plate before him. "There's not many who know much," he went on, mouth full, "or if they do, they woudn' say. The ballet instructor wouldn' talk with the likes of me. But I asked around, I did, and found some who could speak the Queen's English and was willin' to tell what they know…"

"Yes?" Raoul prodded.

The boy took another hasty swallow of ale. "Miss Daae's not there. Leastways not now."

"What do you mean she's not there now?"

"Well, sir, she _was_ there. Had a job as a maid, scrubbin' floors and the like."

Arabella gasped and Raoul grimaced, realizing her audition must have been a failure. He nodded at the boy. "Go on."

"She worked there three days before she disappeared."

"Disappeared?" Raoul growled. "Make sense, boy! Did she leave of her own free will?"

"That's just it, sir - no one knows. Some say she did, that the work was too hard, though one of the women thought it strange she didn' take her cloak. Others - they say he stole her away - bein' as the note fell during her audition."

Raoul just managed not to throttle the boy or pull out his own hair in frustration. He felt Arabella's steadying hand on his shoulder as if she sensed his hectic thoughts.

"What note do you speak of, lad?" she asked quietly.

"The note from the Opera Ghost, that's what they call him, Miss. And Phantom of the Opera. There are them who swear he must have come upon her and took her with him the night she disappeared."

"What? Where?" she asked in quiet horror.

"That's just it - no one knows. No one could tell me more 'n they did. He's the cause of the accidents and he showed an interest in Miss Daae. The dancers I spoke with was afraid to tell me even that much an' acted funny like - some kept lookin' up at the rafters. One girl said she vanished into thin air, since the door was locked, like Miss Daae was a ghost herself…"

"Bloody hell!" Raoul spun on his heel, exiting the kitchen. Arabella glanced at the boy uncertainly, then hurried to follow.

"Grayson!" he barked as he headed for the stairwell.

The butler appeared in record time. "Yes, my lord?"

"See to it my bag is packed. I'm leaving straightaway."

"Very good, my lord."

Grayson hurried up the staircase but Arabella grabbed Raoul's arm before he could follow.

"What do you intend to do?"

"What I should have done from the start. I'm going to Paris."

"And the inspector?"

"I daresay even he cannot find fault with a patron visiting an opera house in which his family's funds are invested."

Arabella gave a short nod. "Yes, you're right. I shall pack and join you shortly."

"Oh, no - you won't," Raoul said swiftly, this time smoothly grabbing her arm and swinging her back around before she could ascend the stairs. "You're not going to Paris."

"And why not?" Her chin sailed up in obstinate defiance.

"You heard what that boy said about a crazed ghost."

"Surely you don't believe…

"From the bits and pieces Father told me when he was last here, there _have_ been strange rumors of a madman haunting the premises and making demands of how the opera is to be run. He assumed it was a contrived legend to gain public interest. I'm not so sure. Whether it's legend or truth, I'll not put you in danger too."

"Oh, pah," she waved a careless hand. "If I can survive Miss Dalrympile and her frightful inquisitions, I can certainly manage some mysterious phantom. Besides, if he is indeed real, in all likelihood he would have no interest in me or my presence there since I don't work in the theater…"

"Arabella…"

"Christine is my friend too, Raoul. If there is any truth to what the boy said, if she needs help, I wish to be there. Now…" She arched her brow in question. "Do we wile away precious minutes and stand here glaring at one another, or do we breach this impasse and agree to let me go, as you will eventually come to do, so that we may hasten along on our journey?"

"You are incorrigible," he said gruffly but not without fondness.

"Yes, dear cousin, of course I am. Someone has to keep you on your toes. You see to the coachman, and I'll gather my things…"

"It is past time I find you a husband to take you in hand," Raoul sighed.

Arabella laughed as they hurried up the stairs with him behind her.

"Perhaps," she threw over her shoulder, "this visit will not only ease our fears for Christine's safety and prove there is no ghost - but will serve to put me in the sights of some horrendously wealthy Frenchman. One not opposed to music and dance in his hallowed home, who will then beg for my hand in marriage. Oh, would that not be splendid, Raoul? Such a lovely coup for you and uncle…"

Her words came teasing and light but Raoul frowned, finding no humor in them.

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**xXx**

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A soft rumbling near her ear brought Christine to consciousness. She stretched her arms, smiling when her hand brushed silken fur. Rolling to her side, she stared into unblinking golden eyes.

"Hello, little friend." She stroked his neck. "It's so good to have you back with me, where you belong. But however did you come to be in this place…?"

Mozart closed his eyes in feline bliss as she scratched behind his ear and Christine gave a little sigh moving her hand to his chin. "I suppose I should dress and begin this day. I can only hope that the absence of Monsieur Phantom means I'm not tardy with my arrival for my first true lesson."

The cat playfully bit her finger, just barely, and she tapped him on the nose. "Now, none of that. Some of us are not given the option to lounge in bed all day."

Christine made quick work of her morning routine, certain at any moment her new teacher would come charging through the door and demand her presence. Stunned to open the wardrobe and find an array of gowns at her disposal, she plucked a silky one from its holder, a soft heather color reminding her of the wildflowers on the moors, and hurried beyond the changing screen. The gown hung a little loose, even without a corset, but it covered her and that's what was important.

Once dressed, she moved from beyond the screen just as Jolene entered with her tray.

Christine regarded her in surprise. "Oh … hello. I thought I wasn't supposed to eat before my lesson?" He had allowed her to partake of a meal in the midst of yesterday's troubling fiasco, which had surprised her, but she noted he had been thunderstruck to learn Mozart was her cat and must have not been thinking clearly to allow it.

"The Maestro has gone above. He will not be ready for you until this afternoon." As Jolene set down the tray, her eyes went to the cat. "Faust stayed with you?" she asked in surprise.

Christine narrowed her eyes a little at the absurd name. "Actually, his name is Mozart. He's my cat. I lost him when I was visiting Paris over two years ago."

Jolene started in shock, her eyes wide, almost …terrified?…Christine got the impression that if the girl had still been holding the tray, her breakfast would now be scattered on the stones.

"_Your_ cat, mademoiselle?" she breathed.

"Yes…" After the Phantom's odd behavior, and now this, Christine was determined to discover the crux of the mystery. "Do you know how Mozart came to be here?" Sensing the girl might panic and run, Christine softened her voice. "It's just, I only wonder…A friend who I was with had every member of the hotel staff searching for him the night he escaped from my room…"

Jolene nodded faintly. "My brother found him."

"Jacques?" Startled, Christine drew closer and glanced at the sleek black cat that presently bathed himself.

Jolene studied Mozart, as if unsure she should speak. "He has a fondness for animals … for any living creature. It hurts him to see harm come to them…"

"A very noble trait," Christine said softly. "Jacques is a good boy."

Her praise made Jolene hesitantly smile and encouraged her to speak. "He is a good boy but not all people can see beyond his … difference. They call him bad names and are cruel. When he saw Faust, he thought of him as a friend - he was only three. He had no playmates, I was kept busy so often…" Her brow grew troubled and her voice faded. "The man who worked in the kitchen - Tork - was also cruel. He was not happy to learn that Jacques had taken Lord Dumfries' cream for the cat and he hit Jacques and kicked the cat out into the rain…"

Christine winced. "How do you know this? How is it that you were even there?"

Jolene drew a tight breath and let it out slowly. "I was a - a maid at the hotel. My - I, I was ordered to join the search that night. I came upon Jacques with the cat."

Christine blinked, stunned, but nodded for her to go on.

"Jacques was very upset, he was crying. He was more upset about the cat than his own pain. He ran out into the night, after the cat. Tork ran after him. By the time I got to them, he was again beating Jacques. I tried to stop him and he hit me too. The cat - I could hear it yowling but could not see it. It was very dark, the rain was falling hard, and suddenly -there, there was a man. With a rope. He-he helped us…"

"The man…" Christine whispered, but somehow already knew. "It was the Maestro, wasn't it?"

Jolene paused then gave an anxious nod. "He took us away from harm and brought us here. We have been with him since that night. The cat, it, it must have followed."

"Jolene," Christine whispered, beginning to understand. "Did the Phantom kill this man? Is that why he's wanted by the police?"

Jolene blinked furiously. "I - I don't…"

"It's alright. You have nothing to fear from me. I will tell no one. You have my word."

The girl pulled on her lip with her teeth until Christine was sure she must have drawn blood. "I don't know. He had a rope at his neck. Tork fell and the Maestro picked up Jacques and ran with him. I also ran." She gave a nervous little shrug.

Rescuer … Defender of the weak and helpless … Protector…

Yet another piece to the puzzle of the Phantom that did not befit a monster.

Christine slowly, pensively, moved around the bed and took a seat next to the serving dish. Instead of removing the lid, she picked up the carved figurine and held it in her lap, studying it.

"Jacques wanted you to have it."

Christine looked at her in surprise. "The boy put this here?"

Jolene nodded. "He thought you would like it."

Christine nodded, brushing her fingertip across the absent face. "I do."

Her mind remained on the man of deep mystery who created such beauty and shared his secreted home with two mistreated little waifs. So much about him, about her own presence here remained an oblique riddle. No longer frightening to contemplate but one that intrigued…

Christine looked up at the girl, who still seemed anxious after her confession. She gave her a reassuring smile.

"Jolene, will you help me?"

She shook her head warily. "I cannot help you escape, Mademoiselle…"

"Christine. Please call me Christine. And I'm not asking you to do that. I was hoping you might teach me the language here."

She seemed surprised. "French? Or the words we speak with Jacques?"

"Both?" She smiled hopefully.

Jolene's smile came more quietly, as if still unsure that she might be breaking one of his many rules, but she nodded and pointed to the cat.

"Faust, the cat - Faust, le chat."

Christine nodded. "Mozart, le chat," she repeated, substituting the correct name.

Her serious response teased a giggle from Jolene and the remaining tension shattered like a wave on the seashore that left a soft ripple of peace in its wake. The girl looked at the figurine in Christine's hands and pointed to it. "Little angel … petit ange…"

Christine intently listened and repeated Jolene's translation to every object in the room she brought to her attention. At last she lifted the lid to her serving tray and motioned to the food there.

"Le petit déjeuner est servi - vous devez manger." At her swift flow of words and Christine's vacant, dumbfounded expression, Jolene giggled again. "Breakfast is served - you must eat."

"Ah, oui, mademoiselle." Christine grinned and rolled her eyes a little when Jolene boisterously clapped. Really. She did know _some_ words from her brief few days working in the theater. As she ate, Jolene gave names for the food and items on her tray and Christine nodded, repeating after each swallow.

Near the end of her meal, Jacques joined them. Christine brightened, holding her hand out to the boy. "Please tell him thank you for me," she told Jolene as the merry lad hoisted himself up on the high bed to perch beside her.

"You tell him," Jolene decided, "Merci beaucoup." As she spoke, she crossed her hands slowly over her heart and slightly held them out. The boy's attention had gone to the cat, a grunt of glee escaping his throat as his grasping hand flew toward the black ball of fur and landed on one curled leg. Mozart darted away with haste and sped toward the bath chamber.

Christine put her hand to Jacques's shoulder to gain his attention. She held up the angel figurine then repeated what Jolene had shown her. The boy's dismay to lose hold of the cat vanished as a shy smile crept to his face and he nodded, a lock of hair falling in his innocent blue eyes. Christine couldn't help herself. She wrapped him in her arms, silently and vehemently cursing all who had ever harmed the sweet child.

Jolene's bare hitch of an indrawn breath alerted Christine. Even before she heard her quiet shock, she sensed the prickling change in the atmosphere that made her own heart jump.

Drawing away from the boy, she slowly looked toward the entrance.

The Phantom stood there, silent, observant, the expression in his golden eyes impossible to decipher. "Be ready for your lesson in one hour. This time, do not be late."

At his quiet words, she swallowed and nodded, not daring to tell him she'd only just eaten. He moved away as silently as he had come, his cloak billowing softly behind him in his wake, and Christine released the breath she'd held.

Jolene and Jacques left with barely a glance and nod, as if their master held some invisible rope that pulled them along behind him. Not bound by his control but subservient to his wishes, loyal pups eager at his heels, ready to serve. After hearing Jolene's story of how they met, Christine could begin to understand such behavior, even their desire to stay here and make his sanctuary theirs. Her abductor was their protector, his link with Jacques likely even stronger than either of the children realized….

Pushing away the probable relationship that still oddly disturbed her, she picked up the leaflet of papers of the first part of his opera, nervous when she realized she had forgotten to memorize Act One as he instructed. They had reached an understanding of sorts, and she did not wish to revisit their days of animosity, though she couldn't yet think of him as a friend … Did she _want_ to think of him as a friend? The idea surprised her. She no longer considered him a true enemy. Obsessive. Demanding. Controlling. Yes, he was all of those things….

But he was no longer the threat she once thought him.

Such conflicting thoughts confused her and she had no wish to dwell on what gave her unease. Knowing she would have to stand a considerable amount of time for her lesson, she sprawled across her bed on her stomach and studied the first page. Hmph. The more she read in detail, the more she despised Aminta. Such a feckless creature. Don Juan was written as less of a fiendish tyrant for all of his scandalous manipulations and appeared to be the sympathetic party, which went in direct opposition to the story and what he'd done. Surely, for a man with such a merciless scheme, breaking man's laws and spiritual precepts to gain what he desired, there must be _something_ ignoble about his character. He did, after all, later kidnap Aminta…

He kidnapped Aminta.

Her eyes widened. As she read, a rush of irate warmth chased away the sudden chill of disbelief. She felt as if she were looking not at a piece of parchment but into a looking glass - not with regard to the outlandish overemphasis of pettiness and cruelty, oh no. But with regard to the _actions_ he had jotted down for Aminta to use - mirroring what Christine herself often did in a similar situation, a careless toss of her head, the cross of her arms and tap of her fingers, the pout of her lips…

Surely, he could not have intended this, this _creature_ to personify _her!_

By the time the allotted hour passed, Christine had worked herself into a stew with each line read and reread and read yet again. Once she reached the Phantom's lair, the look in her eyes scorched him as he slowly stood to greet her.

She threw down the pages at his feet. "How _dare_ you!" she seethed.

He regarded her with not even one flicker of an expression on his stony, masked face.

xXx


	32. Chapter 32

**A/N: Thank you for all the wonderful reviews! :) Happy Thanksgiving weekend everyone! Again, this chapter has been looked at by me only- so please forgive any flaws...  
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**Chapter XXXII**

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Christine glared at him as if she would like to flambé him where he stood.

The Phantom struggled with what little patience remained after his brief visit above.

After being subjected to Carlotta's incessant caws and warbles while waiting to speak to Giry and give her further instructions, his frayed nerves were loath to put up with a replay of Christine's histrionics from the day before…

"Perhaps you would care to tell me what it is that I am to have done?" he asked with a sardonic lift of his brow.

"You made me Aminta - or rather her into me!"

"What?" He shook his head at her babble of nonsense.

"You did, didn't you? Every action - it's there. I'm her, aren't I? You wrote her character to portray _me_!"

His lips twisted in a smirk. "So you freely admit that you are shallow and vindictive?"

"Of course not! I mean, I admit nothing - I'm _none_ of those things."

"Which begs the question - why should you so swiftly draw a comparison?"

"Why?" she huffed an incredulous laugh, swooping down to pluck up one of the pages and jabbing her finger at a line. "Take this direction - 'She growls and stamps her foot' or this one 'She crosses her arms and rolls her eyes in aggravation' - and so many more of her actions throughout this act alone - this is me! You wrote this opera _with me_ in mind - it's quite clear. Don't bother to deny it!"

He threw back his head and let out a brusque laugh devoid of humor. "Add vanity and egocentricity to those aforementioned traits."

He gauged her indignant reaction, her cheeks blazing fire, her eyes sparkling diamonds, and reined in all of what he wished to say, cautious as to how he spoke. "Do you have any concept of how long it takes to write an opera, Miss Daae?"

She jerked her head in an indifferent shrug, her reply just as brisk. "Weeks?"

"_Weeks_?" He scoffed out another stern laugh then grew intently somber. "Try _months_. That one took ten of them. Some can take _years_. I assure you that any similarities between your character traits and Aminta's are entirely coincidental."

A measure of doubt clouded her eyes and he pounced on that.

"Do you think you own the market on behavioral characteristics? That you are the first to exhibit such actions at any given time?" He moved to pick up the sheets of music and stood, handing them back to her. "Or perhaps it is guilt that leads you to leap to such absurd conclusions…"

"What do you mean?" She snatched the pages from him. "I have nothing to feel guilty about." She averted her eyes as she spoke, clearly ill at ease.

"No?" he asked in disbelief. "Your expression states otherwise, mademoiselle."

"You don't know me."

"Your actions paint a clear picture of the woman you are." He paused as she lifted her head in hurt defiance at his disparaging tone. Once he had her full attention he went on, "You appear out of nowhere to audition for a spot in a trifling chorus, but when chosen for the lead you do not wish to be known by your given name. You are quick to match your actions to those of Aminta's, a scheming character of pretense - which leads me to believe that perhaps your own story of avarice and betrayal is entirely genuine?"

He narrowed his eyes at her, unable to resist the swift jab to her conscious.

Her face flushed with guilty color. "Your Don Juan is just as much of a schemer -!"

"He needs to be all of that and more in order to challenge Aminta."

"- And he is twice the fool and villain that Aminta is! Yet _you_ wrote him as tantamount to some paragon of virtue worthy of sainthood."

He snorted. "Hardly that. He does have his vices. They are made apparent in later acts."

"Yes, he does," she emphasized, focusing on the first part of what he said. "He _kidnapped_ Aminta."

He impatiently nodded.

"And _you_ kidnapped _me_. So tell me Monsieur Phantom, do you see yourself as this Don Juan seeking revenge? Is that why you kidnapped me? And why even choose _me_? What have I ever done to you?"

He scowled and turned away. This was entirely too dangerous. She was getting too close.

"Mademoiselle Daae," he stated in a voice fast losing all tolerance. "Please desist in creating a fantasy out of the present reality with every damned line of that opera. It is a tale of fiction. You are an actress. Hence, play the role as it is written and cease with behaving like a wronged harridan in this melodrama you have fashioned inside your mind. Now, if we may begin?"

"I am hardly fashioning anything inside my mind. The facts speak for thems -"

His hand flew up to put an abrupt stall to her words. "_Enough of this!_ You have said your piece, I have said mine. Now Take. Your. Place."

The Phantom moved away, his stance one of arrogant grandeur, like a king expecting complete obedience. He took a seat at his pipe organ - leaving Christine to stare after him open-mouthed and hardly satisfied with the outcome of their confrontation.

Somehow she resisted throwing the damning papers at Hades' arrogant head and marching out of his hellish throne room - instead not so demurely taking the spot she had on the previous day. If he wanted a meek servant blindly to obey and refrain from speaking her mind, he would have to seek out Jolene, because Christine would have no part of such intimidation! It might indeed take years to write an opera, but yesterday she had seen him pen Act One for her to learn and he certainly could have added those gestures then, as another method to torment her.

She glared at him, while he remained oblivious ruffling through the pages of his score.

He may well deny it, but she could see the parallel, and she would not play his game. To cause her upset only gave the Phantom Rogue satisfaction that he had obtained the upper hand, likely thinking her weak. The illness _had_ depleted her strength, but over the past four years she had learned to be stronger of mind, to defend and stand up for herself. Once Erik was killed, the need for such strength became paramount after returning to the Heights. This man, this _phantom_ may keep her bound to his underground prison but he would never exercise complete domination over her…

Forcing nonchalance, she nodded for him to proceed with the first scale of her warm-ups.

They got no further than three octaves.

He pulled his hands abruptly from the organ, giving a discordant slide of the keys. This time, he glared at her.

"I told you not to partake of a meal in the two hours before you are to sing. Yet on this first full day of practice you choose to defy me?"

She blinked, too stunned to take offense at his flawed presumption.

How could he tell when she had eaten?

As if reading her mind, he nodded. "Oh, yes, Miss Daae, I can tell. There is a loss of clarity to your tone; the quality is not as crystalline as the first time I heard you sing."

She looked at him dubiously and wondered if he was making it up so as to peeve her. She could tell no difference.

"As you surely must know, monsieur, I have no way of measuring the passage of time in my chamber. When Jolene brought my meal, I ate." She fidgeted at the lie, then pacified her guilt by telling herself that no more than a quarter hour could have elapsed before she did finally eat the bread and fruit.

He looked at her as if uncertain whether to believe her then gave a short nod. "Very well. I will speak with Jolene. For now, instead of focusing on your vocal instruction, we will take this time to rehearse the first act and will return to your singing lesson later. Come."

Ever the autocratic dictator he brusquely stood, his actions clipped yet somehow still bearing an element of distinct grace. She watched as he descended the steps to the level area of the bank and turned to look at her in question. A coiled panther on the prowl, lithe with grace, keeping his distance but ready to spring…

She shrugged off a sudden sensation of weakness and warily followed. He motioned to an alcove. "There, you will make your entrance and walk toward me."

She eyed the opening dubiously. The thick darkness proved that the alcove was not shallow and she wondered how deep it ran.

Sensing he watched her closely, she lifted her chin and gave a short nod. "Am I to sing the words or read them from the paper?" At the disdainful lift of his brow, she added, "I don't yet know the songs."

"You've not committed them to memory?"

She grimaced. _Oh yes, Monsieur Phantom, that and so much more._

"I don't know how to sing the tune to the words, especially if you give me no accompaniment."

"Of course." He gave a short nod. "For now, you may read the lyrics."

She nodded and moved to the opening, first peeking inside at the sound of a distant, hollow drip and making a full analysis of her close surroundings before turning back to face him. They looked at one another.

"Well?" he asked in a mocking manner as if he thought she expected to see the carcass of a body hanging from the tunnel's rock ceiling. "Are you finally ready to begin?"

She pressed her lips together. "I'm not sure where to come in. Do I speak the reply to the question that Don Juan gives? Or should I begin elsewhere?"

He let out a weary breath. "I will give you your cue."

In the next instant the powerful and melodic voice of an angel flowed throughout the chamber, dispelling all previous dark and morbid thoughts of the tunnel behind her. She stared at him transfixed. His song came to a stop.

He crossed his arms. "Now what seems to be the problem?"

"I…" Shaken, she blinked. "P-problem?"

"Your entrance, Miss Daae. Did you not memorize _all_ lines contained within the first act? You must know all of the cast's lines for the scenes in which you will appear, in order to know where you are to begin."

"Yes, yes of course." She fidgeted in embarrassment. "Please … once more?"

This time she steeled herself against the warm stirring of emotion that the sound of his voice engendered. She managed her lines and walked to where he stood.

"What was that?" he asked, clearly unimpressed.

She shook her head in confusion. "What?"

"Your entrance. You are supposed to exhibit coy seduction in your approach. You moved as if you were a milkmaid off to milk the cows."

She frowned. "I thought you are to be my vocal teacher. Now you will instruct me on how to walk and act too?"

"Of course. This _is_ my opera. As you will be training with me the majority of the time, I will need to instruct you in the choreographic moves required."

"_You_ will teach me to dance?" Shock filled her voice.

"Only the most basic of steps and stage directions. Madame Giry will teach you the remainder upon your return."

"Then I will be expected to dance as well as sing?" She tried not to sound horrified, recalling her botched audition with the stern ballet instructor.

His expression softened marginally. "Your role will require nothing complicated. I wrote the part of Aminta as a lead in voice, not in the dance."

Christine gave an abrupt nod, her nerves only slightly less tense.

"Now, if you will return to your position," he prodded. "We will start from the beginning."

Again, she returned to the alcove and walked out on her cue.

Again, he stopped the practice upon her approach.

"Now you prance about like a fluttery girl at her first ball. Surely you know the art of seduction, Miss Daae?" he drew out the words wryly. "You must have used such a tactic before?"

She crossed her arms over her chest at his implication that she was some wanton Jezebel.

"Actually no."

"Not once?" he asked in clear disbelief.

She thought about Erik and practically begging for his kiss, but she had been so innocent then and hardly aware of what she was doing. She attempted nonchalance, refusing to engage in such a familiar conversation.

"I will start over then, shall I?"

"Yes," he sneered softly, "that would be wise."

She huffed off in a snit of frustration and whirled around to wait. At her cue, she sashayed, swinging her hips from side to side in exaggerated display and fluttered her lashes as she'd seen some of the more brazen women do on her travels.

The Phantom narrowed his eyes as she came to a stop before him. "Your approach is meant to entice Don Juan. Not send him fleeing into the next township."

Incensed more than before, she thinned her lips and settled her hands on her hips. "I'm doing the best I know how!"

"You expect me to believe that?" He pointed his finger at her. "_You_ are making this scene into a mockery, Miss Daae!"

She moved a step toward him. "This _entire opera_ is a mockery, monsieur!"

"You are required to act and sing - _not give your continual and redundant opinions,_" he growled, taking a step toward her.

"If you don't like my performance, _then_ _find someone else to play your twisted Aminta!_" she shot back with another step, close enough to spit in his face, and balled her hands tightly at her sides.

"If you think that to _incessantly_ challenge my patience will ensure my change of heart with regard to your stay here, _**you are very much mistaken**_**.**"

"_**Why**_**?** You clearly don't like my interpretation of your pathetic, horrid character - SO JUST LET ME GO!"

He clenched his teeth and grabbed her arms hard.

"_I WILL **NEVER** LET YOU GO!_"

The passion of his angry avowal captured her breath as did the swiftness of his act and the heat of his possessive grip searing her skin through the thin sleeves. She felt breathless and weak and uncertain all at once, no expedient and cutting rejoinder tripping off her tongue to irk his confidence and soothe her pride. Her mind was a stunned blank - her senses now acute and aware only of the heat of his body, the dual blaze of molten gold that were his eyes, the proximity of his lean strength and large hands gripping her beneath her shoulders …

A sharp inhalation of breath sounding more like a cry, had them both turn their heads to look.

Jolene stood at the entrance of his bedchamber, her expression of horrified shock impossible to miss even from this distance before she quickly lowered her eyes. "Pardon, monsieur, mademoiselle," she said with lashes still lowered as she moved hurriedly down the stairs and past them, "I must see to the meal."

The Phantom paid her no notice, but Christine wondered how long the girl had been in the lair, not failing to note she had come from his bedroom. From _his bed?_

With a heated flush of irritation at the vexing idea that was in all likelihood a distinct probability given his reputation, Christine then noted how close she and her demanding teacher had come and still stood.

At the same time he became aware of their present state and released her with a sudden push, stepping away from her. Without a word of explanation or remorse, he waved a hand in command. "Proceed with your lines. You may work on perfecting your entrance in your own time."

Christine swallowed hard, still shaken and embarrassed and annoyed by the entire incident.

Of course he noticed.

"You must put aside all of what you are feeling and step into the character as if it is a new frock to be donned, Miss Daae."

"A frock, monsieur?" She laughed skeptically. "An ill-fitting one to be sure."

Her offhand words brought his sudden attention to the gown he had provided for her that hung slack, and a blush warmed her body at his intent perusal. She brought her arms up, her hands lightly covering the sleeves as a barrier against him. He frowned, his eyes again lifting to hers.

"Then pretend. Surely you have engaged in pretense at some point in your life to know how to play a role."

His twisted words, as always, seemed double-edged implying more than the moment at hand, and she gave a terse little nod. As a young girl, she had often played the tragic heroine of the present novel she was reading, at times even persuading Erik to join her as both villain and hero in their games of pretense.

Yet as her rehearsal progressed, she found it difficult to keep her attention solely focused on the libretto, her eyes often straying to the kitchen area. The lair had no walls separating the rooms, save for the bedchamber, and from the position he told her to stand Christine glimpsed the table where Jolene busily sliced vegetables and threw them into a large pot.

Her lips recited the lines at hand but her mind often wandered far beyond the moment, speculating on the girl's relationship to the Phantom and just what it entailed. She did not like where such thoughts took her, even more, despised that she should care. On her travels, she had met young women Jolene's age betrothed to be married. If the girl wished to throw her life away by being his possession of decadent amusement, it was certainly no concern of Christine's.

With relief she received the Phantom's directive that it was time to begin her singing lesson and looked away from the kitchen, moving toward the organ without needing to be told twice. The music he played and taught no longer sought fully to control her, but it did help her escape her thoughts, something she direly needed at this moment.

The time passed, his approval in her tone apparent even if his responses could not be construed as praise, and she was surprised when he drew the lesson to a close.

"We are finished?" she asked, looking away from the closed portcullis on which she'd fixed her attention.

"It is time for dinner," he explained, not looking at her. He scratched something on the page with a quill. "You will find dishes and cutlery on a shelf near the table."

A curious glance toward the kitchen revealed that Jolene had disappeared, and Christine blinked, uncertain what to do. Was she expected to eat here and not return to her chamber? Did he plan to dine with her? The prospect seemed entirely too intimate, to share a meal together, alone … and surely he would need to remove his mask, since the bottom of it touched his upper lip, which he doubtless would refuse to do…

At her hesitation, he looked her way.

"I …" She licked her lip in nervous confusion, but refrained from asking if he was to join her. "Will we, will we be resuming lessons afterward?"

He curiously regarded her in her flustered state. "We will go over the second scene of Act One, but there will be no further vocal instruction. Before you leave to retire to your chamber for the evening, I will give you additional pages to memorize."

Christine nodded, looked back at him once more as he studied his opus, then she moved away and down the stairs. He did not follow.

She found all she needed and ladled into a bowl a thick vegetable stew containing bits of shredded meat. She glanced across the lair to the dais and the organ. He had not moved from the bench, now and then scratching notes on his pages.

She took a seat at the table, all the while staring at him as she ate.

.

**xXx**

.

The second and third days went much like the first, following the same pattern. The Phantom taught her his opera and scolded her inefficiencies, offering meager praise. Christine learned her role and challenged his libretto, often giving her opinion where it was unwanted.

On the fourth morning she stopped just inside the entrance to his lair in astonished shock.

Jacques sat at the base of the organ, his head and hand pressed to the polished wood, while the Phantom played a lilting melody. Christine quietly approached, watching the two, convinced of her theory of their relationship when she witnessed the Phantom turn his head to look down at the boy, a tender smile curling the edges of his lips.

She inhaled a stunned breath at the sight, a hint of the familiar causing her heart to quicken.

Sensing her entrance, the Phantom looked from the boy and toward her, and for a second time Christine felt a rush of unsteadiness. A warmth she had never witnessed glowed in his eyes, his countenance relaxed and transformed into … an angel wearing a mask…

Disconcerted at the irrational workings of her mind, she quickly looked from him and down to the boy. Jacques smiled up at her in enthused greeting, bringing a faint smile to her own lips.

"He enjoys the music."

The Phantom's low, smooth voice made her jump and she looked at him in confusion.

"But - I thought he could not hear?"

"He hears the melody in a manner that all should experience but few come to comprehend. He feels the music within him."

Christine nodded softly in complete accord. A strange connection seemed to link her to the Phantom as they stared at one another. Fragile with the knowledge of a shared understanding, but without malice. Absent of the usual tension and curtness ...

"As do you," he added quietly putting her thoughts into words.

"Yes," she whispered.

"As do I."

Even if she could speak, she felt unable to frame an answer.

Jacques suddenly stood and approached her, taking her hand and moving with her so that she would come the few steps forward. Grateful for the interruption but nervous to draw closer to the man seated at the bench, she shook her head.

"What is it?" she asked slowly, hoping the lad would understand.

He persisted and pressed her hand to the polished black wood then looked at the Phantom expectantly.

"He wants you to feel what he does," he said quietly though explanations were no longer necessary.

Christine gave a little nod as the boy then pressed his hand beside hers. She lifted her eyes, slowly bringing them back to the Phantom. His eyes held hers as he began to play, a softer piece this time, one that cosseted her ears and wrapped around her heart even as the vibrations of his music pulsed beneath her skin and traveled throughout her body, making her blood sing...

_Dear God, this was just like…_

Jolene suddenly appeared in the entrance to his bedchamber, scattering Christine's far-reaching thoughts of disbelief and dousing chill reality into her tingling senses. She snatched her hand away from the wood and took a step back. The Phantom stopped playing and swung his head to see what she did.

"Pardon the intrusion, Maestro," the girl said somewhat nervously and moved down the stairs. "I came to get Jacques."

"Of course." He gave her a slight nod and smile.

The girl moved past and took Jacques's hand. "I am sorry I did not arrive earlier. I know that you wish to practice with Mademoiselle Daae. I hope he was no bother -"

He lifted a calm hand to stop her anxious words. "All is well, Jolene. Do not let it trouble you. It is always gratifying to have a captive audience that offers no criticism."

He looked back to his score. Jolene stared at him a little longer then also turned away - but not before Christine saw the transparent adoration in the girl's blue eyes that she had for her master. Faced with the proof of what she had long assumed true, Christine nonetheless felt as if the breath had been knocked out of her.

Jolene loved the Phantom.

Was he aware?

Did he have feelings for the girl?

He suddenly looked at Christine and caught her studying him, a frown on her face.

His own rare expression of ease vanished and his eyes narrowed. "There is a problem, mademoiselle?"

"Of course not," she said a little too quickly, now feeling ill at ease to be near him, upset by what she'd learned. It was no business of hers what involvement the two shared, though especially after her traumatic experience, she despised seeing any girl used as a floozy, for whatever reason. Never mind that Jolene did not seem to take offense to the arrangement. The girl regarded the man as a savior and protector. In all likelihood her immeasurable gratitude would compel her to give him whatever he asked. Her servitude, her loyalty, her body…

"I am ready to proceed with the lesson, monsieur," she announced somewhat frostily ignoring the heat that singed her face. "The sooner, the better."

His brow arched, apparent as his black mask shifted. "Then by all means, let us begin."

The lesson commenced, the tension not decreasing as the day's training progressed. As always, he stopped twice for meals and, as always, did not join her. She wondered if he ever did eat, feeling desperately grateful and oddly slighted that he never once stated that he would dine with her or even asked if he might.

At the end of the day, he handed her the usual pages he had copied and quietly ordered her to memorize them. "This is the last of it," he told her and she gave a brief nod, taking the papers and swiftly moving away toward the corridor that led to her bedchamber.

Before she left his lair, some force inside compelled her to look over her shoulder.

The Phantom stood with his back to her, his head hanging low. At his clear dejection, Christine battled the unexpected urge to return to him, staring at him for several uncertain heartbeats before at last hurrying away to the safety of her empty chamber.

No longer fearing him …

But suddenly terrified of what she might say or do if she remained in his presence.

.

**xXx**


	33. Chapter 33

**A/N: This chapter deserves the M rating.**

* * *

**Chapter XXXIII**

**.**

_Music streamed into her mind, the chords unraveling there, ribbons of white light shrouded by fringes of translucent darkness … not unlike a wispy veil of mystique that obscured all clarity, draped over a crystal dome that shielded a brilliant flame._

_Without warning, the heavy door swung inward. A cloaked figure entered her dimly lit chamber and strode toward her with single-minded purpose._

_She turned her head on the pillow with a shock as his shadow fell over her, barely given enough time to gasp out a confused question with regard to his sudden presence in her bedchamber. He pressed his lips to hers, stealing all breath, his leather-encased hands grabbing her wrists. When she did not struggle to free herself, he ran his smooth, cold gloves firmly down her arms and sides, scattering tingles in their wake._

_Erik! her heart cried in conviction even as her mind refuted the possibility._

_His searching kiss drugged her senses while his evocative, dark music possessed her soul. She felt as if she were suspended, time itself holding its scandalized breath to watch. Powerless to thwart his intimate advances, she had no wish to try. His touch aroused her body, his fingers kneading sensitive breasts and brushing soft nipples to taut awareness…_

_She groaned for more._

_Their kisses grew needy, urgent, tongue swirling with tongue, heated breath warming frozen lips. He pressed close, fitting his hard, slim length to her soft, yielding one… in an instant she lay without her chemise, naked beneath him. The flesh of his hands was warm, his gloves now absent, as traces of flame from the heat of his body joined with the tingles of sensation along her chilled skin…_

_She felt no shame to be unclothed, only a hollow ache for him to fill her. His hand brushed between her thighs, stroking damp warmth and she arced toward him, begging him without words to make her his. Clawing at his shirt in an attempt to bare his own body, she was relentless in her aim as her fingers brushed smooth skin and muscle and the soft, sparse hair that grew on his chest. He began to pull away. She clung to his shoulders, for the first time looking into his face - to see not Erik, her eternal love, staring down at her through the black mask…_

_But the Phantom of the Opera - with eyes of gold burning fire and branding her as his own._

_At the revelation of her nocturnal visitor, her hold did not lessen, her need only spiking, unquenched. Once more she brought his head down to hers. His lips traced wet heat from the slope of her neck to the swell of her breasts. Lost in the ache he wrought and the pleasure he perfected she turned her head on the pillow, her lashes sweeping downward, falling halfway closed in desire…_

_Mozart's unblinking amber eyes watched from where he sat on the mattress directly beside her and he shook his silky black feline head._

_"Do not be fooled by a name," he purred. "Names are of no significance here - **Open your eyes**__…_"

Christine gasped in shock, her eyes flying wide open as she bolted upright to a sitting position in bed and clutched the tangled covers on either side of her. Still panting, her chemise intact and clinging to her damp, aroused body, she shook her head in an attempt to regain her wits.

A dream…

It had only been a dream.

Still dazed, her face going hot at the memory of all that dream entailed, she looked around her chamber and noticed she was alone. Yet the music from her erotic slumber carried on, seeping through the rocks…

He played music from his opera and what she had sung in their practice, music that had not affected her in such a shameless manner on those occasions, not like that first day in his twisting tunnels, when his dark, evocative chords and velvet lure of a voice had literally seduced her where she stood. _This_ music would not have led to such a shocking dream. As she listened, she heard him play a stanza over, and realized he was working to perfect his composition.

Beautiful as always, but it did not elevate her breaths or cause her to feel things she shouldn't for a man who was more of a mystery to her with each passing day. _Three_ of them had come and gone since their last awkward lesson, when Christine had witnessed the truth of Jolene's feelings for the Phantom. And each had proved more difficult for that reason and much more ...

The blame for this dream could not be placed with the composer, as much as she would wish to pin all of it on him and be absolved of any part of its emergence. He had filled her bizarre slumber that held no limitations on decency, but the trappings of her own confused mind were clearly her tormentors this time. Why she should dream such things about a man she scarcely even liked she did not care to question. No doubt, it had to do with her frequent and involuntary comparison of the Phantom to Erik. And the cat's strange advice - (that a cat could even talk to give it!) - likely had to do with her pet's dual names, both herself and the Phantom insisting on the moniker each had given. Christine would not back down, neither had the Phantom, and the poor cat bore the uncanny title, "Faust Mozart", since usually her correction came after a comment the Phantom made about the black feline.

Taking in a slow breath, she struggled to regain her wits. The music stopped but sleep proved as elusive as the exit to his underground maze. Recalling that Jolene once told her the bathtub in this chamber was similarly outfitted to his, and would allow her to draw water without assistance, Christine decided a soak in heated waters was exactly what she needed to relax.

In the bath chamber, she plugged the hole with the stopper, pushing down the lever above. A gush of steaming water poured from the faucet and she marveled at such an invention, to have heated water always at hand. Slipping out of her sticky chemise, she piled up her hair with pins then pushed the lever up to stop the flow and stepped into the silky warm water. A trifle on the hot side but tolerable. She almost fell when the music resumed, louder than before, and slapped her hand to the rock, looking up with surprise toward the hole in the wall.

So that was how the music filtered into her chamber!

She hesitated, then stepped back out and padded toward the opening. Pushing the table back to the place she'd had it, she stepped up and grabbed the ledge, standing on tiptoe and peeking through the gap.

Soft candlelight filled one edge of the lake on the right hand side, streaming from somewhere out of her range of vision, the music even stronger than before, and she realized that the light must be coming from his bedchamber. She hadn't realized their rooms were side by side, the twisting corridor that led to his rooms a longer trek than what this opening now showed her.

He was right next door. In distance, if the wall weren't there, almost as close as the walk to her bed!

Stunned, Christine blinked, shivering in the chill air, her skin prickling with gooseflesh. Rubbing her arms, she hurried back to the tub and immersed herself in the water up to her neck, the strangest sense of expectation laced with dread filling her thoughts at her discovery. The dream was addling her mind, and frustrated with the journey it took her on she focused on the vials of oils in a nearby basket, choosing one that smelled of roses to slather over her body and into her hair.

.

**xXx**

.

Arabella left her bedchamber and caught Raoul just as he was about to slip into the hotel corridor.

"And where do you think you're off to, cousin?" she demanded, crossing her arms below her breasts.

Under his breath he cursed his stroke of bad luck and turned to her with an easy smile. Her face above her dark wrapper was drawn, a shade on the pale side, the skin beneath her eyes puffy with her recent ailment.

"I only wish for some fresh air, perhaps a turn around the block. I'll be back shortly. You should rest."

"You're going for a stroll?" she said in disbelief. "At this hour?"

"This is Paris. The city abounds with life at all hours of the night. We're not in the English countryside any longer, Arabella."

He felt no guilt for his mild deception. His reasons were honorable, his wish only to safeguard his headstrong cousin, who doubtless would walk into a dragon's lair in an attempt to save those she loved. With talk of phantoms and madmen and abductions, he didn't know what he would find at the Opera and did not need to be concerned for her welfare as well.

"And you expect me to believe that you suddenly have this desire for a stroll in the cool night air, when only hours ago on the drive here you were again bemoaning your part in sending Christine to the Opera House?" She sneezed then sniffed with derision at his explanation and delicately wiped her red nose with the lace handkerchief she held in her hand. "You're not going there without me. It will take me only minutes to change."

"You don't sound well."

"I'm fine. It's only a pesky reaction to the pillow. I can tolerate goose down but not chicken feathers, and trust me, despite their claims to the contrary that's what those pillows are stuffed with."

"I will see about getting you a replacement." His hand again went to the latch.

"It can wait a few minutes longer. I'll join you shortly. Wait for me."

Before he could refuse, she slipped back into her room and closed the door.

"Sorry, cousin," he said beneath his breath as he left their suite of rooms, "but you're not winning this round."

He was barely to the end of the corridor and down the red carpeted stairs when a uniformed worker approached. "Vicomte de Chagny, I trust everything is to your satisfaction?"

"Yes, yes, everything is splendid." Raoul frowned, sending a glance to the top of the staircase, half expecting Arabella to appear at any instant, though he had just left her room and knew it would take her at least five minutes to don all the layers of material women wore.

He moved across the wide expanse of carpet, the man following at his elbow. Raoul politely smiled and nodded to two young women, tipping his hat as they strolled by.

"And your wife, I trust she is happy with the accommodations?" the man persisted.

"My wife?" Momentarily Raoul faltered then shook his head. "I have no wife. However, my cousin is most displeased and wishes for an exchange of pillows, ones of better quality." At the thought of Arabella suddenly appearing, he spoke, "As for myself, I am in need of assistance…"

"Then _you_ are the one I was told to expect?" the man asked in surprise. "But of course." He gave Raoul an oily smile and brusquely motioned to a maid with a cloud of fair hair. She hurried forward and curtsied to Raoul. The girl looked barely fourteen in countenance, though in the black and white uniform her figure was as well rounded as a woman in her twenties. Her unsmiling lips were full and heavily rouged, her eyes downcast. Raoul sensed she wished to be anywhere else but there.

"Giselle is one of my best. Well worth the fifty francs. For one hundred, you may have her for the entire night."

"I think you are mistaken, sir," Raoul said stiffly. "I have no interest in this girl." He felt disgusted to be solicited as if he were a customer in a brothel, and in such a fine establishment. Did the hotel manager know what his workers did on the sly?

"If you prefer them younger, I do have another girl…"

"_Younger_?" He glared at the man. "_This_ _girl_ is little more than a child! And your desire to peddle her off to whatever gentlemen will line your pockets makes you a corrupt creature of the lowest sort."

Giselle's light blue eyes flickered upward, her shock noted, her relief evident. A grateful smile flickered at the corners of her lips.

The man looked toward the receiving desk in alarm. "Please, monsieur, I beg of you, lower your voice. I think there has been a misunderstanding. I offer my apology. However, you will find that in Paris this sort of thing is common." He grabbed Giselle's arm, preparing to walk away.

"More is the pity." Raoul glared at the man, his countenance softening as he glanced one last time at the unfortunate girl. "Now, if you'll excuse me I'll hail my own cab."

Quickly he left the hotel and summoned the driver of a horse-drawn cab sitting nearby. Time was of the essence. He didn't wish to try to locate his own driver, who doubtless had found a seat at the nearest tavern. Raoul's choice to visit the Opera house had come after he dismissed his driver for the evening.

His father had been absent for most of Raoul's life but had left him with a few pearls of wisdom, one of which he relied on now. The Comte told him if he wanted all the pomp and circumstance of being treated as a noble, then he should send a notice of his arrival and visit during daylight hours. But if he wanted to see those incidents swept under the carpet and hidden from view in preparation for such an event, it would benefit his cause to arrive when least expected and in a manner no one would notice.

He directed the driver to drop him off at the back door of the building where deliveries were made. Once there, he paid the man then tested the door, grateful to find it unlocked with no one in the immediate vicinity. Pulling the collar of his coat around his neck, the brim of his hat shielding his face, he made his way through the throngs of performers, some busy at practice, others relaxing and indulging in an evening's entertainment.

A group of men playing cards glanced at him as he walked by but paid him little interest. He continued to the area where the dressing rooms were located.

Before he could approach, the painted rose doors of the diva's dressing room burst wide open, the singer he remembered as La Carlotta sweeping out, a servant on either side of her. Her face was mottled red where patches of white face powder did not show, her eyes blazing in fury. Not wishing to be spotted and recognized, Raoul stepped closer to the wall behind a scaffold to watch, his mouth dropping partway open at the sight of her. Her brassy red curls were covered in the same white powder that also dusted her pink dressing gown.

"I demand zat the managers find me another room in which to make my costume changes!" she decried like a queen to her subjects. "I will not stay in zat room another moment!"

"But signora, there is nowhere else to go," the aid on her left said nervously, pushing the round spectacles up his long nose.

"Then they must find a place for me. The room is haunted. That little snit of a maid vanished from behind those locked doors, where she should not have been - _and just look at me!_" she whined, sweeping her heavily ringed hand from her face to her gown. "Candles blow out and a wind comes from nowhere and does this to me? These things have happened far too long! The wretched Opera Ghost," she snidely growled, "he is to blame. And I'll not stand for his tricks another moment!"

"Perhaps it would be wise to just do as he says and go," a meek mouse of a woman said on her right. "He did demand that another singer take your place."

**"Never!"** La Carlotta swung to the side as if she would slap the girl, who cowered a step back. The diva remained motionless, gritting her teeth. "Come." She whirled around in high dudgeon. "Bring my doggie. I _will_ have another room!"

Raoul watched as the queen diva and her entourage moved away, a third man holding a black poodle with a pink bow bringing up the rear.

Raoul shook his head in disbelief, grimacing at his new role of patron of this madhouse to which his father assigned him. He hurried inside, closing both painted doors behind him, and began his search. If Christine had literally disappeared from within this room with the doors locked, there had to be a logical explanation. A hidden door somewhere, leading to a passage behind the rose patterned walls, perhaps…

He pulled a tapestry away from one wall, looking for indentations that would mark a door. Finding none, he moved nearby to the full-length mirror, heavily scrolled and ornate, and searched the gilt frame, running his fingers along the inside edge.

"What do you think you are doing in this room? Leave at once!"

The curt words startled him, and he turned to see the stern ballet mistress, dressed in black as she'd been on the day he met her. Her daughter, again dressed in a white ballet costume, trailed her steps seeming hesitant.

"Vicomte," the older woman gasped in surprise. "I did not realize it was you!"

"Madame Giry. Mademoiselle Giry." He somberly greeted the pair.

The woman, who at first looked ready to tear his head off and serve it on a platter when she was unaware of his identity, now seemed apprehensive to recognize him. Her gaze cut to the mirror and back again.

"May I ask, monsieur, what brings you to the Opera at this time of the evening?"

"I have come to investigate the disappearance of Christine Daae."

The ballet girl gasped, her fingers pressing to her lips. Her mother stood taller, her blue eyes now a blank mask . "I'm sorry, monsieur, I cannot help you. I know nothing."

"Perhaps you can tell me the last time you saw her?"

"I am very busy with my duties each day. Miss Daae worked as a maid under the authority of another. Since she was not under my tutelage, I did not keep track of her whereabouts."

"But you don't deny that after her failed audition you secured her that job when a hidden creature known as The Phantom dropped a note telling you to hire her?"

The younger Giry's eyes went wider as she quickly looked at her mother, who would have passed for mimicking a statue made of stone.

"I assure you, monsieur, the Phantom is only alive in the active imaginations of a theater troupe who desires continual excitement. He does not exist. It was a prank, nothing more."

"Her disappearance was no prank!"

"You seem to have a vested interest in the young Miss Daae," Madame pointed out, ignoring his heated words. "But you have been sadly misinformed. Miss Daae left of her own accord."

"Miss Daae is a close friend of mine. I highly doubt, with no more than the clothes on her back, that she would leave her cloak behind, if she left this theater _of her own accord_."

The ballet mistress's chin sailed another notch into the air. "Believe what you will, monsieur. I cannot tell you what I do not know. I must go now. I have duties to which I must attend."

"Of course." He gave a curt nod of his head in dismissal.

"Come, Meg," she said moving away from the door.

"I will speak with your daughter, alone."

"She knows nothing," Madame argued.

"I'll be the judge of that."

The woman in black hesitated, first looking at Meg, whose eyes seemed to plead for her mother's help, then back to Raoul.

"Please," he said with a gallant incline of his head, "do not let me keep you from your duties, Madame Giry."

A message seemed to pass between the two women before Madame curtly nodded and left the room. The little ballet dancer stood frozen, staring at him with huge eyes.

Raoul motioned to the divan. "Do sit down, Miss Giry. We have a great deal to discuss."

"Yes, we certainly do."

Raoul swiftly glanced toward the doorway in disbelief, his heart plummeting.

His cousin moved into the room, her smile brittle.

"Arabella! How did you get here?"

"Cousin." She gave him a terse nod. By her narrow-eyed look he had no doubt he would hear the sharp edge of her tongue later. "In the same manner you did, of course. And how _thoughtful_ of you to leave the carriage behind for my disposal."

He stifled a groan and managed a tepid smile in return. She turned a benign look toward the young Miss Giry and introduced herself.

"Now," she said gently, as if they were bosom friends and she was inviting a confidence, "please, if you would be so kind, tell us all you know of Christine."

.

**xXx**

.

Nothing was going as planned. Almost a week had passed and they were nowhere near where they should be.

Three days earlier, Christine had complained of a headache midway through the lesson, trying to avoid the Phantom's gaze from the moment she entered his chamber. She had seemed nervous, tense, jumping at the least ruffle of a page turned. When she lamented that she could not continue, he grudgingly ended the lesson and ordered her to return to her room, suggesting she partake of a heated bath to help her sleep, adding his wish for pleasant dreams. She had stared at him, frozen, eyes wide with appalled shock as if he'd told her to drop her gown where she stood and bathe in the lake while he watched. When he curtly asked if there was a problem, she only shook her head and left with such haste she practically fled from his lair.

The day after that, when he inquired about her health, she admitted the pain had gone but due to her momentary incapacitation, she didn't know all the lines, "unable to commit them to memory with her head pounding like a huge bass drum". His temper already on a short wick to detonation, they argued more than they practiced and lost valuable hours. A foolish endeavor if they were to keep to the timeline of the opera and he was to present her as his star.

This morning he had struggled to exercise patience, even after hearing her apologetic and stilted admission, with no excuses this time, that she had not yet committed the final act to memory. Somehow, he managed to get across the vital need for her cooperation, without flying into a rage, though his directives had come through clenched teeth. Her face had been pale, her eyes lackluster and ringed with dark circles as if she had obtained little sleep and he did not persist with his scolding. The lesson had gone if not smoothly and free from tension - at least in the correct timing and order, her entrance _somewhat_ improved and befitting Aminta.

Tonight, disgusted with their sluggish pace, the Phantom stormed about the lair with no real purpose or direction, at last finding his way to the organ bench, his hands lifting without clear thought to take their place at the keys. The music came frenzied and furious as he poured his bottled emotions into his composition. The anger drained from him, finding an outlet through the notes until he, too, felt drained. Still he played on, the music winding down to a more soothing note as he allowed its therapeutic voice to calm his senses. He thought about switching to his violin, to carry on with this present mood of melancholia - when the atmosphere changed and a prickling at the back of his neck warned him he was no longer alone.

Once before he had felt this sensation. Now as then, he swiftly turned to look - barely catching Christine's wrist before she could grab his mask. Forcefully he pushed her hand away - empty this time of a dagger but no less determined - and rose from the bench.

Not releasing his hold, he moved toward her pushing her a step back. Trapping her hand suspended above them, her fingers spread wide and claw-like - he stared at her in incredulous shock that she would dare attempt such a feat.

Her eyes, no longer lackluster and weary, now blazed with determination and fire, her curls in wild disarray around her satin bed wrapper. And he realized with another jolt of surprise that she had marched into his lair to confront him in her bedclothes, her appearance like that of an avenging angel on a mission.

Golden eyes clashed with brown ones.

"Miss Daae, what in blazes do you think you're doing?" he growled once he rediscovered his voice.

"Getting at the truth," she furiously spat.

"The truth?" he growled just as angry. "What _truth_?"

She slammed the papers from the Don Juan on top of the organ. "How the _Phantom of the Opera_, who vows he's _**never**_ been to England, can pen _**the exact lines**_ _**of a song written by an unknown English composer for his unreleased production!**_"

He hissed in a swift breath. The little minx must have found and read his original lyrics in the box he'd kept hidden in the stables.

"I have no idea what you're going on about," he hedged, his jaw set like flint, his eyes giving nothing away.

She tried to snatch her wrist from his relentless hold. He tightened his grip further, anxious that she would again try to unmask him.

"Prove it," she demanded.

His eyes narrowed. "And how do you suggest I do that?"

"Take off the mask."

.

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: Uh- oh. Wonder how the Phantom is going to get out of this one … or not. ;-)**

**Thanks for the reviews! You guys are great! While it may seem that this story is nearing the end, there is much more to go…**

**Merry Christmas to all who celebrate it! :D **


	34. Chapter 34

**A/N: Hope everyone had a wonderful holiday season (still is) ;-) Thank you for the reviews! This chapter was looked at only by me, forgive any flaws. And now****…**

**.**

* * *

**Chapter XXXIV**

.

The Phantom eyed her with wary regard, sensing that a simple deflection would not discourage her this time. By the wild burn of her eyes, Christine appeared ready to lunge across the short expanse and tear the mask from his face with the hand she held tightly behind her back - to keep it from also being captured in his firm grip.

Despite his outrage, he could not help but be awed by this woman of fury and fire. Oblivious to her alluring appearance, she was glorious in her anger, and his desire to take her inflamed him anew. The over-sized wrapper fell from one shoulder to drape at the bend of her elbow, midway exposing the upper part of her shift and the soft blush of skin beneath. His eyes dropped to the firm globe of her breast and the hard outline of nipple straining against the cloth. He imagined pressing his hand there in possession, ripping away that cloth and taking the erect nub of darker flesh into his mouth, coaxing her into full submission...what would she taste like…? What would she _feel_ like…?

Struggling to dispel the unwanted fantasy of his nightly slumber, The Phantom worked to retain his clarity of mind.

"Your hesitance does little to disprove your guilt," she said bitterly.

"What reason would I have to steal lyrics from an unknown composer?" he asked, ignoring her demand that he remove his mask. "I have no need for a ghostwriter to create my works. I am my own Opera Ghost," he smirked.

Living beneath a theater for three years had been of great benefit. In the mild and steady tenor of his voice, he detected none of the alarm or passion struggling to break through his fragile veneer of incensed calm.

"You know very well you haven't stolen them," she snapped.

He snorted in derision. "I fail to understand your reasoning – or lack thereof. You come to my chambers unannounced and uninvited, stealing up behind me like a thief in the night, and**_ accuse_**_ **me**_ of being a plagiarist -"

"I accused you of nothing of the sort! **_You cannot steal what you already own!_**"

The strength of her outrage vanished in an instant as the full awareness of her words entered her smoldering eyes for the first time since her attack ... as though her heart had found him guilty, but her mind had just come to the realization of what that meant.

She stared at him in dawning shock.

For several oppressive heartbeats, the Phantom could not breathe.

His mind seemed absent, torn from logic. He could do nothing but numbly stare back, as frozen as she, watching as the weight of years seemed to fall from her thin shoulders. In the sudden over-brightness of her eyes he saw a montage of hope, disbelief, determination, and uncertainty - a glimpse of the girl he had worshiped and adored in their wild English countryside. And in that one brief, glimmering moment, he found himself wishing to affirm her suspicions, that he was once this unknown composer, this ignorant boy who penned the composition of his heart in a burgeoning poem to his beloved. He felt surprised by the strength of his desire ... felt surprised, too, that he would so rapidly consider forgetting all the rage and bitterness and the untold pain, all to follow the dream long buried deep inside a chamber of his blackened and scarred heart.

The intensity overwhelmed, that heart pounding out the need and releasing its hold on the old, unrequited aspiration. Its plea rushed through his ears and beseeched him to forget all else, to take her in his arms and to his bed. To kiss her senseless and brand her body with the heat of his own, until she cried out in surrender to his ownership of her heart, soul, and mind, of all that she was and ever would be … to put an end to these endless games between them, of masquerades and omissions and lies. Deceptively innocent - but at its essence, cruel and selfish …

All of which she had first engaged in with him.

The brutal reminder strengthened his dwindling resolve. If blame was to be placed, she had begun this war. And he would finish it, coming out the victor - and she, his captured slave and the spoils of their final, imminent battle ….

As children, they had respected one another with honesty. As a grasping young woman, avaricious in her goal to become a Viscountess, she had changed the rules. She had wanted him as a pet and a plaything. To fawn over her and be there as she willed, exploiting his affections, arousing his passions, never intending to marry one so lowborn and debased - at the same time giving herself to that bore of an aristocrat, hoping to wed the damned fop and gain his title.

She had almost succeeded.

In that final revelation, the rosy dream faded, pale and ghostly, its voice dwindling to a whisper as it slunk back to the prison chamber lost inside his heart.

The Phantom blinked, coming to himself. No more than seconds had elapsed since she last spoke, but he felt the weight of them rest heavy in his soul. The unasked question remained in her eyes that still searched his, her hesitation clear: to believe what he did not wish her to know.

Good. She yet struggled with the possibility.

Telling her the truth would change nothing. The facts remained, cold, insurmountable and dark - the past that could not be erased, the present that could not be ignored - and he swiftly released her, wrenching her from his hold with a hard push and turning his back on her.

Closing his eyes, he clenched his hands in tight fists. Better for all to let the pathetic creature he once was remain dead and buried.

"You speak in riddles, Miss Daae, and I weary of your games." His words came clipped and forced but low and quivering, contrary to the image of cold disinterest he hoped to achieve.

Damn her and these wretched feelings! They would _not_ become his entrapment. His own game of subterfuge was vital to his plan.

Knowing he could not face her in this state, he worked hard for composure, reminding himself of what would happen should she find out. In her ignorance he maintained the upper hand. If she learned the truth, he would lose that defense. She would be livid, most certainly, but her fury he could manage.

That was not what concerned him.

Pity would follow outrage, followed by insincere apologies, both of which he would loathe. The boy from the Heights had given in to Christine, time and again. The girl he remembered knew what to say and do to obtain all she desired. In his pathetic state of utter infatuation he had been helpless to refrain from giving her whatever she asked, even when it nearly destroyed him. Though on _that night_ both her cold, callous words of wishing him gone and his blind rage were what drove him. Later, he reconsidered his haste, little good it did…

The Phantom scowled at the memory. He would not offer Christine ammunition to destroy him a second time. The bullet wounds had healed; it was the invisible scars of her deceit and betrayal that yet festered. If she learned his identity, after the stilted apologies, a tiring exhibition of deceitful pleasantries and feigned delight that he had survived would no doubt fall like sweet poison from her lips. She would use the advantage to try to worm her way into the core of his soul ... _Try?_ The possibility was better than certain! Even during this month with her in his underground caverns, posing as a stranger, he had felt the tenets of his resolve sorely tested more than once. Hell, he had wavered only moments ago. Should he yield, should she learn the truth, he feared that she would use the affection he once felt for her as a plea to win him over, to secure her release so as to foolishly return to her thrice-damned, violent excuse for a lover - leaving The Phantom alone to rot in his miserable existence, wretched and ignored, the hapless fool to be forgotten and scorned.

Never again.

And never again would that boy harm her.

"Why will you not remove your mask and let me see your face?" Her voice, no longer trembling with fury, came as gentle as a moonlit whisper from behind.

"I have told you why."

He heard the satin rustle of her robe and tensed as she drew close.

"Is fear of being captured by the authorities your only reason?"

"Is that not reason enough?"

"Why do you so often answer a question with another question?"

He gave a wry, tense laugh, his eyes impatiently scanning the cavern wall before him. "Why do you ask so many?"

"How else can I learn what I wish to know?"

"Rest assured, mademoiselle. I will tell you all that is _necessary,_ to live here and perform my opera."

"I think we differ on the opinion of what is necessary." Despite his biting words, her voice remained quiet. "I think it's necessary, to my peace of mind, that I know more about the man who brought me to live in his home and has become my teacher."

The resulting span of silence was broken only by the lap of water on the bank.

"I will tell no one your secret, monsieur, I swear it."

At that, he swung around to look at her in wry disbelief, noticing she had closed her wrapper tight. "I cannot _trust you_, Miss Daae! You made that perfectly clear tonight."

"I would never do anything that could bring the children harm. I see how they depend on you. I promise I'll not turn you over to the authorities or do anything that would risk you being taken from them …"

The Phantom hardened his heart to the plea in her voice. He knew what she truly asked, what he would never show her. It was apparent that the only way to end her troublesome suspicions of the truth were to put them to a quick and final death.

He smiled grimly. "My lack of trust in humankind is not exclusive to you, Miss Daae. I have uncovered my face for no man, woman, or child. Nor will I. Perhaps instead of attempting to beat a matter to death that has previously been laid to rest, we should return to the source of your accusation …"

"First, there's one thing I will ask of you," she countered, her eyes riveted to his narrowed ones, "since you refuse to remove your mask."

She paused. He gave her a wary nod to proceed.

"I need you to convince me that you're not the original composer of that song."

"But I _am_ the original composer, as I have told you." Her eyes widened and he hastened to add, "But I'm not the man you seek. That's what this is truly about, is it not?" She did not answer and he lifted his brow in polite detachment. "I assume we speak of the same man that you mistook me for when first we met? This Irwin...?"

"Erik," she corrected softly.

"Ah, yes. Erik." He repeated the name with cool disinterest. "I assure you, these lyrics of _The Point of No Return_ are my own conception. I wrote the entirety of the Don Juan opera here in my home."

"I read the lines." A glimmer of anger revisited her tone. "And I read his. That song in your final act has some of those same lines."

She clearly would not surrender with ease, tenacious to a fault.

He feigned a laugh of disbelief. "And what were these suspect lines that have you once again envisioning scenarios that never existed?"

Her skin flushed a shade of rose at his mockery. "I … I cannot remember - that is, not exactly. I no longer have the parchment on which they were written."

"You _cannot_ _remember_?" He fiercely pounced on her words in surprise, glaring at her. "And you **_dare_** invade my solitude and attempt to strip me of my mask - accusing me of a crime I never committed - **_when_** _**you cannot remember or produce the alleged proof of your claim?**_"

"I remember what the lines were about," she defended, her chin lifting. "They spoke of letting your darker side yield to a passion that fully controls you. Of crossing bridges and not turning back. Of a complete possession and surrender of the body, mind, and soul…"

He did not flinch a muscle, surprised by how much she recalled, and shaken by the depth of emotion that trembled in her voice as she recited the crux of his primary lyrics. She had never been quick to learn, a trait that he mastered without difficulty. She must have looked at that page more than once to recall so much.

He worked to keep his features as bland as the mask he wore and quietly cleared his throat. "Is that all?"

"Is that not enough?" Her brow lifted incredulously.

"No, Miss Daae, it is not. I am not the only composer who has written of a bridge to be crossed or of passion that burns the soul and wholly possesses it…"

Drawn to her against his will, he moved closer as he spoke and slowly circled her. That, and the velvet lure of his hypnotic voice he used as a ploy to unsettle her nerves and fluster her logic. She followed him with her head and her eyes when he was within range of her sight but otherwise remained motionless.

"…The lyrics are a match in theme only through coincidental happenstance. It is not so unusual that two composers who pen diverse stories of dark passion would coin similar phrases using key words known by many. Such things do happen, and I sincerely doubt the lyrics are an exact imitation. It fails to matter, since you admitted that you _cannot remember them_."

He came to a stop before her.

"I think we have clarified that, thank you."

Her answer came miffed and tight, her breathing slightly labored. She looked away from him and out over the water, her full lips turned down at the corners, all outward signs of former indecision absent.

Now he must erase any remaining trace of her inner doubts. What were a handful more lies among the scores he had told since the day she first entered his lair? He felt justified; she had started this web of deceit four years ago…

"This unknown composer - Erik. How long has it been since you last saw him?"

Her eyes flicked to his in curiosity and she answered without thinking. "Four years. In the autumn of 1864."

"And how long have you known him?"

"Almost all my life," she whispered.

"And he has lived in England during the entirety of your acquaintance?"

She winced. "He never left."

His smile came hard and brittle upon seeing that she hid from him her knowledge of his presumed death. "You offer me conjecture, I give you _proof_. Jacques approaches his sixth year. I met his mother in a bistro, in France…"

At his deliberate pause, bright red suffused her skin. She gave a terse nod and dropped her gaze.

"Now that we understand each other, I must demand two things of you, Miss Daae …"

He waited. She did not look up or acknowledge him.

"First, you are never again to attempt to look beneath my mask. Should you do so, I warn you, the consequences will be grave. I might forfeit my arrangement with you and keep you trapped in this frozen hell for the remainder of your days - regardless of any capitulation you offer to my conditions for your release…"

Still, she did not look up.

"…Or, depending on my mood at the time, I might choose to close you up in a dark corridor, until you assure me that you have learned your lesson … with the ever-present threat of my serpentine friends only a misstep away."

Her face paled, losing the flush of angry, embarrassed rose. Her already large eyes were huge with dread as they met his.

Ah. At last, he received a response. Circumstances being what they were, it took very little to deceive her of the peril he could represent.

His threat was empty, of course; he had no intention of placing the little fool in danger. But she didn't know that. Even after saving her life, twice, she still thought him an ogre and a monster. A deformed beast who _had_ seized mortal life with the whisk and snap of his lasso - yes, he was precisely that. But to Christine, he secretly aspired to become her Angel of Music, his hope as foolish as her childish belief that such a storybook being existed.

Assured that she would never again try to unmask him, he continued.

"Secondly, you are never again to bring up this boy from your past. Your idiotic fantasies in comparison and presumption have interfered with the development of my opera and your training. Both are paramount to all else. The show must go on as planned, and I will tolerate no further disturbances."

Her eyes filled with clear dislike. "I assure you, Monsieur Phantom, I will not make the same mistake again. You two are _nothing_ alike."

"At last, we reach an agreement."

He welcomed the triumph of relief from what had become a wearisome task in persuasion, while he tried to ignore the stirrings of regret at what surely must be her final surrender. He became incensed at his own foolishness. This was what he wanted! It was how things must stand between them!

"If there is nothing else, Miss Daae, you may return to your chamber. The hour grows late and I have business to attend."

She gave a half-hearted nod at his stiff dismissal and turned away.

Helpless not to do so, he watched her retreat, her poise graceful but wraithlike, her figure almost skeletal but still so damnably beautiful. The dejected slope of her thin shoulders and the defeated bow of her head caused the dark void in the center of his chest to ache.

Needing to force his mind off the waiflike vixen who still had such a wretched hold over his faculties, The Phantom moved down the opposite stairs and bellowed for Jolene.

Within moments, the girl came running from his bedchamber. "Oui, Maestro?"

"Tell me of your visit above this morning."

A betraying flush of crimson stained her face. His expression hardened.

"You went to the hotel. Did I not explicitly forbid you to go back there?"

"Forgive me. I was worried for my friend."

"The cavalier fool who works as a bellboy?" he growled.

She sniffed. "I have no interest in Peter. He is only _a boy_. I prefer older men."

The Phantom regarded her in weary disdain. Was he to have no peace this night?

Her form was full and ripe for that of a woman twice her age, but her mind still retained the foolish and infantile behavior of a child. In the span of time it took to wrap the rope around their abuser's neck, he had unpredictably been cast into the role of a guardian and father figure to both children - and he had no concept of how to instruct a young woman coming of age. At least Jacques was a boy and easier to manipulate since he feared going above. The girl went into the city three times a week to market and to procure any other needed items, also acting as his spy in the opera house. But the older Jolene grew, the more obtuse she became. And now, at fifteen, she spoke of her proclivity for older men as if she was the most jaded streetwalker on the Rue Scribe.

She studied him, as if expecting an answer, and he shook his head gravely.

"You invite danger and the risk of discovery to all of us every time you step through that door. I'll not warn you again. You do not wish to feel the heat of my wrath. Stay away from that place, and especially Peter. He would harm you without thinking twice."

Her lips turned up in a pretty smile. "As you wish, monsieur."

Feeling at a loss as to her pleasure with his stern reply, he moved to the next matter at hand.

"What of the furor above? Did my recent visit to La Carlotta obtain the results I desired? Did she at last heed my warning?"

A wicked smile twisted his lips at the memory of the erstwhile diva coated in the white face powder he had magically blown toward her in a thick cloud, once he snuffed out the candles that ensured her attention was focused in that direction. His location behind the mirror had given him a coveted spot to witness the evening's entertainment.

"She demanded another dressing room. The managers complied and gave her the room at the end of the east wing."

He grimaced and resolved to pay a visit to the new locale. He would not tolerate her refusal to obey his command and would haunt her as the unseen ghost until she complied with his wishes.

"Did anything else of interest occur, anything of which I should be made aware?"

For the first time she seemed anxious. "The Vicomte has arrived."

He sneered, giving a curt nod. "As I expected. Though his arrival came slower than I would have anticipated."

"You _wished_ for him to come? But - I thought you didn't like him?"

A scuffling noise brought The Phantom's head around.

"Silence," he warned softly.

A cursory look at his dwelling showed that all appeared as before. The lattice framework of iron that protected his home from any invaders remained closed, no sign of life outside the grille. The water had not stirred, still barely lapping at the dark rocks of the shore. In its sluggish state, the brackish green water appeared to have taken on the aura of the tomb in which it was trapped. An underground network of caverns and passages, some of them secret, his home hid pits and dangers he had made use of, and in all likelihood once had been the ceremonial gathering place of an ancient sect. Now, he sensed a presence lurked nearby.

And he did not think it was the ghosts of the Druids.

He narrowed his eyes then looked at Jolene. "We will finish this discussion elsewhere. Come."

.

**xXx**

.

Christine pressed her back against the cold rock, her heart pounding with the knowledge of what she just heard.

The Vicomte they spoke of must be Raoul! He had come to France! When had he arrived? Did he know of her disappearance?

She peeked around the corner, finding the main chamber room empty, and hurried to the organ, grabbing the papers of the Don Juan for which she had returned. After a momentary hesitation, she laid them back down and soundlessly took the stairs to The Phantom's bedchamber, sure that by the curtness of the truncated discussion, she would not find him and the girl in an embrace she had no desire to witness.

She strained to hear, wishing for details of Raoul, but all within was silent. Nervously, she worked up courage to peer around the entrance.

No one was there.

Biting her lip in frustration she rushed through the chamber and looked around the back corridor to stare both ways before heading in the direction of the bath chamber. The unwelcome thought of finding them together in the copper bathtub brought uncomfortable heat to her face but she pushed away such an outrageous idea. They did not seem in a congenial mood, nor did she hear the rush of water. A hasty glance inside assured her the room was empty.

Confused as to where they had gone, she moved further down the corridor, lit periodically by torches, the stretches between dim but not dark. Her steps measured and silent, she clung to the wall as if it could shield her from discovery. Her pulse throbbed in her temples. The fear that he would suddenly appear ahead or see her from behind constricted her breathing. If she were wise, she would run to her chamber and forget all she'd heard. She still smarted and burned from their confrontation and had no idea what to say if she were caught lurking through his inner chambers. But the persistent need to know more compelled her forward, and having come this far, she didn't wish to turn back.

The direct path came to a sudden end, the corridor twisting to the sides in both directions. Hearing a scuffle to the left, she hesitantly moved in that direction. She approached another chamber, the flame from the torch coming from inside and casting a golden pool on the ground in front of her. She edged close and peeked around.

Her mouth fell open in surprise at the small figure of Jacques tucked in a large bed that anyone from the opera house dormitories would covet. His room was half the size of her chamber and also made cozy, with a rug of deep pile that looked alarmingly like a bear, and a low torch burning near the door.

Small toys of wood sat in a line on the ground. Here too, the rock that composed the room was lighter, streaked with coral and gray. A low chest of drawers stood there with an organ grinder's toy monkey resting on top. The troops of angels and demons stood in wooden rows of attention beside it. Next to that, his small wool suit of clothes was laid out over a chair, his black shoes and hose tucked beneath.

It was a room a little boy would love.

Catching sight of her, his sleepy eyes flickered and he stirred as if to leave his bed. She shook her head no and approached, smoothing her hand down his tousled hair and pulling the blanket back up around his neck. Without thinking about it, she leaned down and pressed a kiss to his brow, the desire coming natural. She felt a hint of surprise and a bloom of warmth inside when his skinny arms encircled her neck and he reciprocated with a wet kiss on her cheek.

She straightened and smiled at him, then put a finger to her lips and shook her head, hoping he would understand that she asked for complete silence, as if she'd never been there. He solemnly nodded against his pillow, and she moved back to the empty corridor and resumed her venture into the unknown. At this point, she no longer expected to find them in time to hear the rest of The Phantom's plans, but that did not alleviate her curiosity to investigate this section of his caverns.

If Jacques's room was in this corridor, she reasoned that Jolene's would also be near. As expected, the girl's private chamber was a short distance away. It explained the many times Christine had seen the girl leave The Phantom's bedchamber, since his was the portal to the main room, but it did not dismiss her niggling suspicion of their intimacy.

She scanned the empty chamber, also dimly lit by one torch, and saw evidence of the young girl Jolene had been and the woman she was becoming.

A porcelain doll in a ball gown sat on a similar chest of drawers, this one gilt and painted with rosettes, along with a bone-handled brush, blue hair ribbons, and an enameled box. Exotic, gold-embroidered fans in bold colors hung on the walls, surrounding a small painting of a man and woman in a gondola, and a simple armoire and screen completed the furnishings. Jolene also had a large bed that would be the envy of any maid above, surrounded by a veil of ivory, though neither of the children's beds were as high and large as hers or as spacious as the Phantom's. On it was a trio of decorative velvet pillows with another doll nestled among them. A plush rug of deep green flanked the girl's bed.

No amount of opulence was spared in any of the chambers she had seen thus far, her own included, and she wondered if The Phantom had taken all he desired from old sets of past operas or purchased them anew. With his notorious reputation as a criminal who could not visit the shops of Paris, she expected the former. But his attention to detail, to bestow treasures dear to a girl's heart, the same as he had done for the boy, left Christine agape with confused wonder. He also had done the same for her, supplying her with every feminine luxury. Even trivial items that might not mean much to some but which Christine enjoyed. As if he knew her innermost desires…

Feeling suddenly uncomfortable, she tore herself away and continued down the corridor.

A step sounded on the stones ahead, and she faltered.

Swiftly she turned and sped to the boy's room, plastering her back to the part of the wall hidden behind the door. Her eyes darted to Jacques, who appeared blessedly asleep.

"I will send a note with you to deliver to Madame in the morning, with instructions of what must be done."

"Monsieur..." Jolene's voice came anxious. "Will you kill him?"

Christine sucked in a sharp, silent breath, wondering who he would kill. The Vicomte? Their voices grew louder as they neared.

"A slow death is what the wretch deserves for his crimes. He should be made to suffer." A pause, then, "I have not yet decided."

"And the lady?"

"I hold no ill will toward the woman. It is only through the misfortune of fate that she is related to such a cretin…"

He sneered the last words, his voice trailing off. A lapse of uneasy silence ensued.

"Maestro…?"

"Go to bed, Jolene. We will speak more of this in the morning."

Christine held her breath, willing her heart to stop beating, afraid he could hear it pound within her breast and smell her fear. He moved with the deadly grace of a panther and reminded her of one, like the caged black wildcat she had seen in her exotic travels; why should he not possess other traits of such a beast? She closed her eyes as if by doing so, she could make herself vanish.

The girl mumbled something then hurried away. In the unbearable interim of silence that followed Christine felt as if her heart might burst from her body. When at last his footsteps moved in the direction of his bedchamber, she let out her breath, her lungs burning, and almost sank with relief to the cave floor.

Trapped in the unknown maze behind his private rooms, she hoped that by continuing the course she would find a different way back to her bedchamber. She had learned that the endless labyrinth of corridors could backtrack on themselves or wind into dual entrances. If one could not be found, she would wait until he slept and creep past him. The image her mind formed of him in his bed made her strangely tingle with warmth, her body releasing the same moisture as when he had slowly circled her - and she hastened down the corridor, desperate to find another way out. Peeking into Jolene's room she noticed the girl's silhouette behind the dressing screen.

Christine raced past on silent feet, thankful for the soft leather soles of her slippers. Thankful that here no water pooled on the ground to give her location away.

The corridor made a gradual turn and she found herself in the cathedral-like lake chamber, where she had first spied the children. Looking across the expanse of water, she could barely detect the oblong patch of light that would be her bath chamber.

The lake entirely filled the area between, offering no passage, save for a narrow strip of bank that was no more than two feet in width and curved around the edge to the left, leading to the high oblong patch of light and the area where the children had stood. In the steady glow of the torches, no passageways or doors marked the cavern wall. She looked to her right. Further down, darkness formed a perfect rectangle that suggested an opening and she moved toward it. She gasped when she looked through and saw the edge of a staircase. And on the stairs, a faint wash of moonlight she had seen repeated in the center of the lake.

Inhaling a triumphant breath at her discovery, she came to a decision, certain Providence had paved the way. Recalling the Phantom's animosity toward her friend, Raoul could be the one the Phantom meant to kill. She must find him, tell him that she was alright and not to interfere. Four weeks ago, she would have sought him out to rescue her, in fear for her life. But now she worried what harm could come to all of them if he tried. He could be hurt in The Phantom's dark plot, The Phantom could be captured, the children could be exposed. She felt she had no choice but to honor her word and stay per their arrangement, at least until she could think of a method to persuade him to return her permanently to the world above. If only he would agree to some sort of compromise and not be so wretchedly stubborn to insist that they be wed!

The opening was perpendicular and seemed no bigger than herself, standing a few feet off the ground. Clearly a hole in the wall and not a true passage, but she felt she could squeeze through…

A short time later, with half her body dangling out the other side, Christine rethought her plan.

The idea of running through the streets of Paris in her bed wrapper was an invitation to trouble. If she waited until The Phantom slept, (if he ever did sleep), then hurried to her chamber and dressed before undertaking her temporary escape, Raoul would also be less inclined to believe she was in danger, than if she were to show up at his hotel room in her bedclothes. A little over a month ago she had shown up at his door, wearing only her shift and a cloak; he would suspect something was amiss if she were to repeat those actions. And she would not rest at night if he again risked everything because of her, by unwittingly charging into the midst of The Phantom's dark plot to make her a star. She still felt guilty about hurting Raoul in refusing his proposal and had no wish to burden him with her troubles. He deserved every happiness.

She pulled back. But her body wouldn't budge. Horrified, she pulled again, to no avail.

No! She _couldn't_ be stuck!

Gripping both sides of the rock wall she forced movement and winced at the fiery pain as rough stone scraped deeply into her shoulder and breast. She couldn't help the whimper that escaped.

Even with the amount of weight she had lost, she couldn't seem to force her body back through the hole! Why? She had little trouble going in, a bit of a push, but nothing like this! Envisioning herself trapped straddling the half foot or so of ice cold rock the entire night, with her wrapper and shift bunched up near her hips, she felt a growing sense of alarm and strengthened her efforts to get free.

The slipper fell away from her foot dangling on the other side, and she groaned, slapping the mottled rock in frustration. _Finally_, he had given her shoes to wear, and barely a week passed before she lost one to the darkness of the unattainable passage, probably never to retrieve it…?

She wanted to cry but gritted and bowed her forehead to the stone, refusing to. After taking a few deep breaths for calm, she tried to work herself loose again. The back of her shoulder throbbed incessantly as the rock bit into her fragile skin, bringing tears to her eyes that she impatiently blinked away. Her progress was slow, but at last she felt a give and let out a weak trembling laugh of relief…

…which died in her throat at the dreaded sound of a hiss followed by an angry growl.

Her heart ceased its fluttery beats.

Before she could whip her head around to see, his large hand burned her bare thigh, wrapping around it in a vice-like grip, at the same time his other hand manacled around her arm near her shoulder. She felt her body fly from her stone confinement as he viciously yanked her toward him.

Christine tumbled against his solid form before falling to the ground in a graceless heap. She groaned, painfully pushing herself to her hands and knees…

…and looked up into the burning yellow eyes of The Phantom.

.

xXx

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**A/N: Note: The term "ghostwriter" did not originate until 1890. I took some artistic license since I wanted to use it. :) Besides, Erik always was a man before his time****… ;-) Happy 2012 to all! :D**


	35. Chapter 35

**A/N: I love you guys! Thank you so much for all the encouragement and reviews and desire to see more of this story! Your wish is my command … ;-) -also, if you would like to see an E/C manip I made for this story, (and am still perfecting), the first for Come to Me, check out my Youtube channel (honeyphan2) - it is my background and I'll post it on deviantART when it's completely ready.  
**

**And now…**

* * *

**Chapter XXXV**

**.**

Christine numbly opened her mouth to speak, but her mind refused to function. Nor would any words come out of the cavern burning inside her chest. There was little room for voice or breath, with her heart so near to bursting, as frantically as it pounded.

The Phantom in all his dark glory loomed above her and glared down at her in her pathetic state. His cloak had been carelessly thrown about wide shoulders that in her heightened sense of panic seemed broader than she remembered. His hands were curled into fists that tightly clutched the edges of his cloak near his long legs, his boots planted an imposing distance apart on the bank of stone.

God, he was wholly terrifying and intensely beguiling all at once.

"I…" Her voice came hoarse, uncertain. "This is not what it seems…"

His fiery eyes narrowed to golden slits, and her heart again slammed viciously into her ribcage. Silent and immovable as stone, he presented more of a threat than when he ranted at her or terrorized her with mention of his horrific traps. But the image was deceptive. Stone could not exude fierce emotion, the intensity of which made her tremble though he had yet to move a muscle, to utter a word. Danger wafted off of him in potent waves. Danger, and something breathless that shaped within her being fear and excitement all at once…

King Hades exerting dominance in his netherworld, and she cowering like Persephone caught trying to escape. She blinked. Her mouth went drier at the involuntary thought, that she would ever think of herself in such a role, as his trapped queen…though at this moment he looked more disposed to prepare her for a coffin rather than his bed.

"Please, won't you say something?" she pleaded in a near whisper. She would almost prefer his furious bellows to this unnerving strain of deep silence.

He moved then, so fast she did not realize his intent until he had pulled her up, his long fingers grabbing her below the shoulders in a grip that bruised. Face to face with her, now so close to him, his eyes had taken on a life of their own. They snapped and blazed in raw fury, and she sucked in a wavering breath, unable to move as he held her upright by the arms like a doll of rags. If he let go, she was certain she would slip back to the ground in a boneless heap.

"What it seems," he said, his voice low and deceptively soft, bearing a hidden blade beneath the velvet, so that if she pushed too far she would be cut, "is that you were attempting another escape. After you _swore_ that you would not do so again."

Christine swallowed hard, struggling to form sensible words that would not set off the explosion.

"I…not exactly. At first, yes, but I - I changed my mind. I was coming back. I just - I wanted to reassure someone that I was well, to not do anything rash. I heard what you and Jolene said, that is…" His eyes burned, scorching through tissue and bone to reveal the secrets of her soul, and she took an anxious breath, "I know that the Vicom - that someone above looks for me and I only wished to find him - them! - and express my wish to call off the search."

It was the perfectly _wrong_ thing to say, and she cursed her nervous slip. Before her eyes, she watched the silent panther bare his teeth in a snarl, in preparation of lunging for the jugular. She stared in horrified fascination at the flash of white and wondered a little hysterically if he really would bite her.

He shook her briefly but hard enough that Christine felt as if her head might snap from her neck.

"Damned little fool - _deceitful Delilah!_ You expect me to _believe_ you sought only brief escape with plans_ to __**return**__ to this prison? That you changed your mind to execute what you've been planning since the night I brought you here? __**Damn you and your never-ending lies!**_"

Even to her ears, her excuse sounded weak and flawed and highly implausible though it _was_ the truth. Before she could grope for an explanation he might accept of why he should believe her - difficult when she herself could not form or discern a reason - he roughly moved his hands over her back and hauled her effortlessly over his shoulder, like a dark incarnation of Samson bent on revenge.

Had she, in her frantic desire to save all of those involved, unwittingly brought down this underground temple of music to fall on her head?

Save for a muffled cry of shock at his unexpected act, Christine gave no other sound of protest. When he was this furious, she dared not fight him. She winced at the fresh pain even as she struggled for a tortured breath that had lodged somewhere deep in the recesses of her throat.

She felt him spin around with her and move at a fast clip toward the lake, bypassing the corridor she'd taken. For one petrified moment Christine wondered if he might throw her into the chill water, with the intent to drown her, having become weary of dealing with her. The idea prompted the insane urge to laugh though there was certainly no amusement to be found in this. God, she truly was on the path to lunacy, perhaps already there…

With her head hanging down, her only view was of his cloak. But in her alarm, even as dizzy as the position now made her, her senses were painfully acute, troubling…

The heat of his back warmed her trembling hands as she pressed her palms to his cloak to try and regain a measure of equilibrium. The effect brought on a different wave of faintness instilling a warmth that swept through to her center. She shivered but kept her hands in place against solid muscle and turned her head to see. He turned left and came to his bedchamber almost immediately, the distance between that room and the lake short, the way she'd taken a longer, circular route.

At once he came to a stop, and she saw his bed, her view of it distorted - tilted and inverted. The sudden image of him throwing her onto the coverlet then lunging on top of her before she could steady herself and fight him off sped to her mind with disturbing velocity. She became even more strongly aware of the heat of his trim, strong body against hers, the shocking position of his arm and hands…one arm branded at the back of her thighs, his fingers clutching one of her legs through the frightfully thin layers of material, his other large hand pressed firmly against her lower back. She inhaled a sharp breath of alarm at what was about to happen, but any appeal she might have given for leniency suffered a quick death in her throat.

He let out a growl of disgust, the rumble of it felt through her skin and sending tingles of shivers all down her spine. Again he moved, storming into the main lake chamber and through the passageway that led to her bedchamber. Her limbs hung frozen in dread, useless; she could not fight him, could not summon the power to struggle and break free. Against his rigid strength she felt powerless, could only hang limply from her enraged, solid perch and anxiously await what promised to be a grim outcome…

The Phantom strode through the corridor at a rapid clip, keeping his hold firmly over his wily captive.

Damn her to the very fires of Hades! For one moment, for one brief, foolish moment he had hoped, _this once_, he could trust her to honor her word. Fool, that he was - he should have known better! He had allowed his doubts to falter, allowed her once again to unsheathe her talons to shred another furrow through his piteous heart - had _believed_ _her_ when she said she would stay and sing for him…

All the while she had smiled through her treacherous deceit, befriending the children and planning her way of escape -

All to be _with_ _him! The thrice-damned insolent son of a Comte!_

He would make her forget that idiot boy if it was the last thing he did.

Having arrived at her chamber The Phantom stormed through the entrance and threw her onto the bed, giving no care to caution.

Sprawled out on her back, Christine winced and struggled to sit up. She put her weight on her elbows, then her hands, a spark of her old spirit returning to aid in her defense, now that she lay at the feet of Hades to learn the lot he would cast her. But the ruler of this dark underworld seemed to have lost temporal interest in the punishment of his captive slave as he stood at the foot of her bed and stared at his open hand.

His eyes lifted from his palm, gravely focusing on her.

"Lower your gown from your shoulders."

At his low, impersonal words, her mouth dropped open and Christine gaped at him, aware of his scandalous and wicked reputation, but stunned to hear such a shocking command directed toward her, nonetheless. Some of the fire had left his eyes but his determination remained as fervent as before in the granite set of his jaw.

"No." She pulled the lapels of her robe more securely over her shift. "_Never_."

"_Damn you, do as I say!_" He strode to the side of the bed and she turned her head sharply to follow his movements, the helpless, wounded canary circumspect of the cruel, advancing cat...

"Now I am to be the quarry for your thirst for flesh?" she asked bitterly. "Is this how you intend to repay me for what you presume to be my crime? Will you now ravish me against my will?"

He laughed harshly, his soulless eyes devoid of all humor. Icy chills shivered through her at the disquieting sound and the burning look he gave. He lifted his hand in a careless, elegant manner as he spoke, the dark lord of his hidden castle.

"I assure you, mademoiselle, if I wished you in my bed, I would have no need to _ravish you_ to make you mine. I would not _need_ to take you against your will, like the lecherous vermin of your past. But such a prospect is unthinkable. I have no desire for your flesh, as tempting as you may think it."

His cutting words wounded though she could not fathom the reason and did not dare let him see her reaction.

"You seem to have a highly overrated opinion of yourself, monsieur, if you think I would ever _welcome_ your touch upon me." Her sure claim brought a rush of uncomfortable heat prickling beneath her skin as words produced image of the bizarre dream of three nights ago, but she abolished it from spreading further with a little shake of her head. "Get out…"

Her order came wavering as she watched him move closer and slowly sink to the edge of her bed. Instantly she scooted away. He grabbed her wrist.

_"Let me go!"_

With a wicked smile, he moved closer until the heat of his body burned her, the fraction of mattress between them scant. She held her breath.

"Not only would you welcome my touch, you would _beg_ for more and never wish me to stop." His tone in an instant had turned to warm, seductive velvet, his breath fanning her face, the spicy scent of rich, dark wine as drugging as his words. "I could take you now if I so desired … to a place you have never dreamed, one you've never known before…"

Beneath his grasp her pulse madly throbbed and Christine felt faint. She could not think with him so close, his golden eyes a weapon that burned away her will, to slowly and relentlessly melt all resolve. Desperate to retain sense, she again attempted to snatch her hand from his hold, but her act was feeble against his greater strength.

"But as I have no interest in claiming your body," he repeated in the same low, smooth tone, "that day will never come."

He released her wrist with a little push, and she rubbed the tingling skin with her other hand. He glanced down at her defensive little gesture then back into her eyes.

"Now, you will do as I have told you. Slip your gown from your shoulders…"

She opened her mouth to refuse a second time.

"…or I will remove it for you."

Her eyes widened at his softly delivered threat. By the steady look in his eyes, she knew he would not hesitate to strip her naked if she continued to resist.

"Why do you wish for me to do such a thing, if you have no interest in, _in my body?_" she pleaded the last in a nervous whisper, her words coming stilted.

"You are bleeding, mademoiselle." He showed her a red smear upon his palm. "And as I have no wish for a repeat performance of your stay in my bedchamber when you were ill, I will see what damage you have further caused."

Anger chased away timidity and Christine frowned in sudden aggravation.

"You could have _told me_, rather than let me go on believing your motives were impure."

"You gave me little opportunity to state my reason."

_"You've never let that stop you before!"_

She was certain by the wicked gleam in his eyes that he had taken cruel amusement from her misunderstanding, and had derived enjoyment in her being the helpless, frightened pawn in his little game of manipulation.

He shrugged, his manner calm and glib, but it was a deception. The fire had not left his eyes.

"You are so inclined to believe the worst about me, mademoiselle. Why should I bother to engage with the useless frivolity of explanations that you would no doubt reject?"

"I can hardly be blamed for the opinions I have formed about your character or the lack of it, due to my set of delightful circumstances." She dryly motioned with one hand toward the walls of her prison chamber.

His mouth pressed into a grim line. "Your tactics to delay will not work to your benefit. Lower. Your. Gown."

"Jolene can tend me," she said, her alarm returning when she realized he would not be swayed.

"Jolene must rise early to tend matters for me at the opera house. I will not see her sleep disturbed due to your devious imprudence. Nor will I argue the matter with you any further. Do as I say … _**Now!**_" he growled when she did not comply.

She sat, petrified. His hands went to her lapels, wresting away the wrapper, the loosened sash offering no restraint to his shocking objective.

"Please - no! I -" Her hands flew up to capture his and stop him. At the contact of his warm flesh against her cold skin, a swift current of shock rushed through her body and she dropped her hands quickly away, noting he did the same.

"I will do it," she finished quietly, her voice shaking with nervousness and embarrassment and an undercurrent of something more she didn't wish to consider.

Christine told herself that he had seen her in this state of dishabille before, when he treated her as she lay in a fever and had no knowledge of the act. But that did not force the present unease away, and now she was quite aware…

She swallowed over a dry throat and turned on the bed so that her back was entirely to him. With trembling hands she slid the wrapper from her shoulders, letting it fall slowly from her arms.

"I don't have all night, Miss Daae," he said coldly.

Cursing him beneath her breath, she slipped first one strap then the next from the curve of her shoulders, letting them fall to the bend of her elbows. She suddenly felt his hand in her hair, pushing the length of it over the front of her shoulder, his fingertips lightly brushing her neck with the act. Another shiver went through her, having little to do with the cold. Indeed, she felt as if her flesh was on fire.

"Lower," he rasped.

"But I -"

"_Lower!"_

With her entire body quivering, Christine slipped the straps down over her wrists, her loose shift pulling away from her bosom and falling to puddle at her waist. Vulnerable and exposed, she vainly attempted to cover herself with her hands, crossing them at the wrists, though he could not see her nakedness from where he sat behind her.

At the ghosted touch of his fingertips against the middle of her spine, an uneven breath escaped her constricted lungs.

"It is as I feared. You reopened the old wound and made a new one with your thoughtless attempt to escape."

"I told you, I wasn't escaping - I would have come back -"

"_Silence_," he hissed. "I will hear no more of your lies."

The steel in his voice was in direct opposition with the tenderness of his touch. She held her breath, finding it hard to believe both came from the same man.

He stood suddenly to his feet and she turned her head, fearing he would now move before her. "What are you doing?" she asked a little hysterically.

"I am attempting once again to repair what damage you have wrought by being where you did not belong and never should have attempted to go. The abrasions are shallow, but in these hellish, damp environs, they could become infected. We have no wish for a repeat of that to happen, do we?"

She gritted her teeth at his wry condescension, her annoyance changing to horror as he walked from his spot. "Monsieur! _Please_."

"What is the problem?" he growled and pivoted at the foot of the bed, her body now in profile to him.

She ducked her head and brought her shoulders forward in a vain attempt to hide herself, her hair he had swept there covering the side of her body furthest from him. The side closest to him lay exposed, save for the desperate span of her small hand.

Trapped in the unlikelihood of his mercy, she shyly whispered, "Please, if you would give me something to cover myself…" She sat on her coverlet, wrapper, and shift, and did not risk moving either hand to reach for a pillow to use as a shield against his endless stare.

For an interminable span of time The Phantom did not move or make a sound.

Shrinking into herself, Christine closed her eyes, not daring to open them and look in his direction.

She heard the rapid whisk and slide of heavy material. Without warning, something heavy landed in her lap. She opened her eyes to see his cloak there.

"Use that," he ordered, his voice sounding strained. "I will return shortly."

At the door he seemed to change his mind and whirled to face her. She barely had pulled his cloak up to cover herself. Again, a short silence elapsed as his unfathomable, glowing eyes stared into her widened ones.

"If you should dare think of leaving that bed, I swear to you I will not hesitate to exact upon you a punishment that will drain every shade of rose from that fair skin with the horror of what will befall you. _Do I make myself clear, Miss Daae?_"

She nodded dumbly, only daring to take in a shuddering breath once his shadow lunged out of sight from the corridor's cavern wall.

.

**xXx**

.

The Phantom stormed to his private chambers, not breaking his swift stride and certainly not trusting her to keep her word and remain in place, no matter what threats he hurled against her.

The memory of her sitting in all her feminine glory came unbidden and unwanted, and he cursed the hardness straining against his trousers as much as he cursed her for her damnable power to unhinge him and make him feel this way. Weakened in her presence. A wretched slave to her physical beauty. At that one glimpse of her clutching the swell of her breast, her flawless skin exposed to her waist, with the abundance of her dark hair cascading in gentle ringlets to one side, he had been too shaken for words and had stared for mindless seconds enraptured by the vision she made, before forcing his feckless gaze to the drab stone wall. He had torn his cloak from his shoulders, throwing it at her, as desperate for her to cover herself as she was to be covered. At the door he had turned, the sight of her clutching his cloak to her breasts engendering a helpless envy to be that damned cloak, and again striking him dumb with the intoxicating picture she presented.

Damn her for her infernal charms! And himself be twice damned for once again being influenced by her allure.

Not this time.

Never again.

The Phantom moved with precise order, gathering the items needed, his actions hurried. He thought of every disgusting and despicable thing imaginable to calm his flesh and relieve the uncomfortable swelling in his trousers. He did not expect to find her there upon his return, his annoyance at her sure trickery and continual deceit fueling his every step as he prepared to engage in another chase after his prisoner…

He came to a swift stop at the entrance, surprised and troubled by what he saw, all ideas of immediate retribution fading from his mind.

Christine had not moved from her place in the middle of the bed. With her head bowed, she now held his cloak beneath her chin, clutched in both hands, her dull gaze fixed to the ground before her. She appeared to have slipped into some trance-like state, such as when she'd been recovering from her illness, and he feared where her mind had taken her.

She should have never tried to flee from him - perhaps he should not have responded with such fury, but this - _this he did not want!_

He took a few hurried steps forward. She did not acknowledge his presence.

"Mademoiselle?"

Relief weakened his bones when she lifted eyes of awareness to his. He drew closer. Evidence of moisture glimmered beneath her lashes, the thick black fringes clumped with wetness, and instantly he felt like the ogre she thought him, for his earlier rough handling and acerbic treatment.

"It's alright," he said in the voice he used to soothe Cesar when his horse was frightened. "I will not hurt you."

Her tension eased by noticeable degrees, her eyes patently curious at the change in his temperament. Without further words, he returned to sit behind her, setting the basin filled with a thin film of heated water on the bed. He soaked the sponge and wrung it, turning to his task. At the long, slender expanse of her back laid before him, he took in a slow, deep breath for control and laid the sponge against her quivering skin.

Christine dared not move, allowing only shallow breaths to fill her lungs as the sponge stroked along the bottom of her shoulder blades and spine. The sting from the water was not as troubling as the feel of him so close, the heat of his body warming her chilled flesh. From all around, her senses swam with the scent, the sight, the touch of The Phantom. His cloak that she held against her breasts still retained a semblance of his warmth, the inner satin lining brushing her sensitive skin in wicked caress, his spicy masculine scent an enticing invasion to her nostrils. She had never felt so weak, so vulnerable, so unbearably…alive. And it frightened her at the same time it excited her.

No, there was one other time, but that was in a life long dead to her, better left forgotten, and she had felt no fear then.

She prayed for his ministrations to draw quickly to a close and felt relief when the sponge left her back and did not return, hoping he would now leave the room while she made herself decent and would not insist on staying. Her relief was short-lived at the gentle press of his fingers against her spine.

She rasped in a sudden shaky breath. "What are you doing?" His fingers were warm but she jerked upright as if his hands were made of ice.

"I have made my intentions clear more than once, or have you so soon forgotten? It is becoming habitual, this inability of yours to remember what is important…" The muscles of her shoulder blades remained tense and he let out a weary sigh. "I am applying the salve I used before. It has herbs to battle contagion."

Her eyes fell closed at his logical explanation and her illogical reaction to the touch of his hands. _Dear God, those hands…_

He did not dab the paste on with swift taps as Jolene had done, but drew all of his fingers in slow, gentle slides of damp heat along her skin. Her entire body suffered in reaction, her nipples becoming ultra sensitive to the brush of satin against them as she brought the cloak closer around her neck, the disturbing moisture increasing between her thighs, her breaths coming more labored though she tried forcefully and silently to slow them as if to do so would offer a deterrent to such endless feeling.

Dear God, she wished he would end this…

And she wished he would not.

Her eyes flew open at the wicked thought that mimicked what he earlier told her would happen.

…_you would beg for more and never wish me to stop…_

No - _never!_

Before she could pull away, he did.

"You are finished?" Her question came out as a plea. Despite his claim to the contrary, perhaps he had put her under a spell to seduce her or laced the salve with a drug to instigate these wanton feelings. Yes, that made sense. He had tampered with her wine to get her here…

He stood to his feet. She snapped out of her dazed state.

"Monsieur, if, if you will please wait outside, I will dress so that you may have your cl-cloak..."

He came to stand in front of her as she ended her fumbled request. Terrified that he would refuse and insist she dress with him in the room, she looked at him in wary confusion.

"I will leave the water and the salve," he said dispassionately. "I assume you can take care of the rest?"

"The rest?" Her mouth was dry.

His eyes lowered to her bosom, then again lifted to her eyes. "From what I noticed, your back was not the only place to suffer an injury."

Her face grew flushed with a wave of embarrassed heat.

"You will tend to it then?"

"It is nothing. A- a faint scrape. Barely noticeable…"

"Need I remind you of the risk of infection?"

The Phantom took a step closer. At the sudden image of his hand smoothing salve over her breast, Christine quickly spoke.

"Yes, I mean no! You needn't remind me. And yes, I - I will take care of it straightaway."

He inclined his head in an abrupt nod. "As you wish. I trust you will keep your word if you value your health. You may return my cloak in the morning when you come for your lesson." He moved toward the opening and again stopped, turning only slightly to look at her then away again. "If I…if I keep the door unbarred, will you remain?"

The soft question surprised her, more that it was delivered with careful hesitance. She felt curious that he would ask, that he would believe anything she might say. But she refrained from once more telling him she would not have stayed away and would have returned to honor her vow to sing.

"Yes," she said, her voice firmer than it had been since his return to her chamber. "Yes, I will stay."

He paused as if reconsidering.

"In the event that you hatch another scheme in the night, the only way to the world above, without traversing the dark corridors you once visited, is through my inner chamber. I am a considerably light sleeper. When I sleep at all. Remember that well, Miss Daae."

She nodded though he did not look at her to see it. She wished only that he would go and leave her to find what peace she could.

At last, The Phantom strode from the room, closing the door behind him.

Christine waited but did not hear the bar fall into place.

.

**xXx**


	36. Chapter 36

**A/N: Thank you to all my awesome reviewers! :) This chapter looked at only by me, forgive any flaws… And now...**

* * *

**Chapter XXXVI**

.

Jolene hurried through the narrow passageway and up the stone stairs to the world above, curious about the night's previous events and disgusted with the woman the Maestro had brought to their home.

It was not that she disliked Miss Daae, who'd been kind to her and Jacques both.

But the woman did not belong...

The Maestro had been planning her stay for over a year, preparing the chamber in which she now slept. When Jolene had expressed curiosity, he told her only that they would one day have a special guest, and later sent her on countless and, what seemed to her, insignificant errands. After one such errand and her return from the city with bars of lavender soap, he'd gone into a fury, exclaiming they must be scented with roses as he ordered, paying little heed to her reply that the boutique ran out of the scent. He had thrown the lavender blocks into the fire, sternly calling them useless, and Jolene had bitten her tongue to hold it from expressing that _she_ wouldn't have minded the little scented luxuries.

Nor had his eruptions of anger settled after he brought his guest to the caverns.

Jolene soon learned of his plan for Miss Daae to sing his opera and was relieved that his interest in her was only as a teacher to a student - until Jolene walked into the main lake chamber in search of Jacques and saw the Maestro about to kiss his pupil. Later, she convinced herself she must have been mistaken. Both of them were at odds with one another afterward, behaving more like enemies than lovers. As it had been between them from the night he first brought the woman to their underground caverns.

Jolene frowned. Christine Daae clearly did not wish to be there. Surely the Maestro could find another singer, one grateful to learn the lead…unless his desire to have her with him really _was_ more than professional and he'd become obsessed with the troublesome woman.

A distinct possibility that didn't settle at all well with Jolene.

At times she feared his volatile temper and dark moods. He had raised his hand to her in threat, pushed her away in anger, but never once did he hit her as her uncle had done almost daily. Both men were bitter, often angry, but there was also goodness within her Maestro...and so much that remained a mystery.

Only once, when they first met, Jolene had dared touch his mask. After his incensed warning never to do so again, she obeyed, fearful that he might throw her and Jacques out onto the streets. He carried an unseen burden, one that weighed heavily on his shoulders. Sometimes, great sadness filled his eyes when he looked into the distance, either unaware of Jolene or forgetting her presence.

He was a difficult man, a powerful man, a dangerous man to many. But with her and Jacques he shared a safe place to hide, protection from their enemies, food, clothing and more. He deserved to have female companionship and know true happiness…

But not with the woman - Christine Daae. She did not care about him and only seemed intent on finding new ways to hurt him.

Less than an hour ago, Jolene had entered the main lake room from his bedchamber, to find her master slumped in front of the organ, sitting on the bench and gripping his bowed head in his hands. At the sound of her step, he turned, his eyes moist and streaked with red, his expression slack with despair. His shirt was untucked from his trousers in places, his clothes hanging limply from his lean frame. His bed had been made but he looked as if he'd never been there.

"What do you want?" His question came quiet, tense and forced.

"I came to light the stove to make porridge."

He gave a brisk nod as if just remembering her daily chore. "Fine. Yes. First, see to Miss Daae. Take the healing balm. You will need to apply it to her back, and again, tonight."

Jolene paused, not understanding. She had thought the wound healed.

"Her back, monsieur?"

He leapt up from the bench. "Yes, damn you, _**her back!**_ Did I not make myself clear?"

"Oui, monsieur," she said, quickly dropping her gaze to the stones at his feet.

"Then go - GO NOW - and do all I have said!"

Throwing sheets of music to the ground with a fierce sideways toss of his hand, he stormed down the staircase and up the next. Before entering his bedchamber, he pivoted on his heel to face Jolene where she had not yet moved. "If she asks you again to help her escape or says _anything_ in connection with that arrogant bastard who dwells above - _anything at all_ - I want to know about it."

"Monsieur?" she fairly whispered in confusion.

"_**The Vicomte!**_" he roared, his words echoing off the walls.

Jolene hurried to gather the needed supplies, not finding Christine in a much better state.

Still sitting in bed in her chemise, she snatched the covers around her neck once the door swung open, her eyes dark shadowed and wide. Upon seeing Jolene, she relaxed then looked at her curiously when she saw that she did not carry the usual pitcher of hot water with lemon, an added instruction of the master's to Christine's morning ritual.

"The Maestro told me to tend to your back."

A wealth of emotions swept over the woman's face, as if at a memory she both loathed and coveted. She looked away, to the foot of the bed, and quietly nodded. Her eyes remained fixed there throughout Jolene's ministrations, and Jolene finally turned to see what Christine stared at.

The master's cloak hung over the back of a chair. The cat sat on its folds that were draped over the seat, the implication of the cloak's presence in Christine's bedchamber too disturbing to consider, and Jolene quickly looked away.

The wound was nasty but not deep and different than before. Had Christine again tried to escape? Angry at this woman's indifference to causing her Maestro such pain, Jolene's hands were not gentle, but Christine didn't utter one rebuke or sound of distress. Once Jolene finished, she gathered the items she'd brought, eager to leave.

"Jolene," Christine said as if not clearly focused on her present existence, "do you believe in the significance of dreams? That they speak or, or even warn of the future?"

"I'm not sure what you're asking."

Christine blushed as if just realizing what she'd said was as bizarre as it sounded. "Never mind." She hesitated. "I was hoping, could you bring me writing instruments to compose a letter and…" She plucked nervously at her coverlet. "Deliver a message to someone above?"

Jolene hesitated. "The Maestro won't like it."

"The Maestro will like it a lot less if the Vicomte suddenly appears at his door…"

As Jolene hurried through the morning throngs on the streets, she remembered Christine's dry parting statement along with her Master's furious words - and they sparked other words shared with her two days before. Suddenly the solution came clear. It was so simple! Surely it was the same man.

Jolene had never disobeyed her master, owed her loyalty to him alone, and trembled at the thought of crossing him, even in secret. But she would accomplish whatever she must to rid them of the problem and bring back things to the way they once were.

At the hotel, she slipped to the back entrance, waiting behind a pile of crates until the door at last opened.

"Giselle." Jolene hurried forward and embraced her surprised friend, drawing her back toward the crates.

"I haven't long to speak." Giselle darted a nervous glance to the door. "They'll be looking for me soon. And if your uncle sees you -"

"I'll be brief." The Maestro's warning never to visit this place had her cast a nervous glance toward the door. "The man you told me of when we saw each other at the market - the nobleman who spoke up for you. Did you say he was a Vicomte?"

Giselle nodded, her eyes shining with delight. "A very kind gentleman - I never knew his sort existed - and so handsome!"

"Are you still assigned to his suite?"

"I bring his cousin tea each morning, but he's not a nightly customer. He was angry at your uncle for being approached."

"Do you know why he's in France?"

"Oui, I have heard them speak. They search for a woman who went missing. They spoke of the opera house and were upset not to find the answers there. That is all I heard. I had to leave to tend the rest of my duties."

"Did they say the name of the woman?"

Giselle nodded. "Her name is Christine."

Jolene smiled in triumph and grabbed her friend's hands in urgency.

"Listen, mon ami. I need you to deliver a message. But you must be very careful about this and do exactly as I say…"

.

**xXx**

.

In the days and nights that followed, Christine slowly began to relax, until suddenly she could no longer relax - and for the same reason that gave her comfort before. Any peace of mind became as farfetched as the sunlight that evaded this dark existence of cavern, stone and water.

Since the night The Phantom caught her wedged in between passages, raged at her in his quiet and lethal way, then ministered to her with converse tenderness - he had not touched her, approached her, and, except for her lessons, barely spoke to her. At first she knew only tremendous relief for his distance, having dreaded their next encounter. But as the second day blended into the third then the fourth and the fifth, her complete ease altered into burgeoning annoyance.

He treated her as if he could not tolerate being in the same room with her, and while his _personal_ disinterest did not upset her in the slightest, at the same time she had no desire to be treated with contempt, or with about as much interest and attention as a beetle crawling across the ground. He chose not to believe her when she swore to him she'd not been attempting permanent escape - she, having tried to broach the subject again the morning directly after he caught her. He had silenced her with a brusque lift of his hand, not even granting her the civility to look her way, and fully turned his back on her.

And he had been turning a cold shoulder to her ever since.

Christine fumed and slapped the libretto down on the bed, scaring away Mozart who jumped off the coverlet and sped out the door.

Thinking of the Phantom's last cold directives to her before she'd left her insufferable teacher's lair - of how her entrances were "still awkward and appalling" and overall she "lacked true emotion, behaving more like an automaton than a living, breathing woman" adding the snide question, "Are you sure blood and not water flows through your veins?" - a dozen highly emotive and very colorful phrases rushed through her mind of exactly what she would dearly love to tell him he could do with his damnable opera.

Oh, he had warned her she would sometimes curse him, but this was more than that…

She sucked in an angry, troubled breath and looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes burned with resentment, her cheeks highly flushed. But her expressive features did not simply denote anger, and she looked away in unease.

It made no sense, confused her, irritated her, and on some level even frightened her. She should be relieved for his lack of desire to be in her immediate vicinity. _Grateful_ that he was actually doing as he said he would and giving her very little attention, save for her voice. _Ecstatic_ to eat at the dining table, alone, night after night, with the cat often curled in her lap or at her feet. And while she ate and glared at the man's profile, The Phantom remained at his organ after each lesson, picking out chords and scratching whatever he was creating onto his reams of paper. With the studied deliberation and endless hours that he put into such work, it must be equal in size and importance to a monk's dedication of transferring holy text to scrolls. Yes, she should be _joyful_ that he paid her scant attention and at times appeared to forget her very existence.

So why was she so upset she wished to scream in outrage and swipe all the contents from her dressing table?

Whirling away from her disturbing image, Christine went behind the screen and practically tore her clothes from her body. The Phantom had drawn out her lesson into late evening, the tension between them both palpable by the time she marched out of his lair, and she still felt it now. Snatching up her wrapper, she chose its satin confines, deciding a hot soak was the only hope for nerves so frayed they would never relax enough to award her the dreamless slumber she so coveted. Dreamless. Ha. She could not remember what it felt like _not_ to dream. Night after night of unwanted images in her sleep had done nothing to settle her emotional symmetry. If she did not have nightmares of the past and its tale of horrors, coming awake with a cry or a start - it was the Phantom's hands on her bare flesh that she envisioned in her sleep. Which put her in a similar state of waking distress.

Why should she have such discomfiting dreams? She hated him…_**hated**_ him!

_Didn't she?_

His unexpected kindness to her during her recovery, when he'd held her close in comfort and had sung to her with such tenderness never strayed far from the boundary of her recollection. She had shared little with him of what happened - but it was too much. Yet words could never be retrieved, and because he _did_ know sometimes in her loneliness she wished to go back to the ease they once shared so briefly, when she felt safe in his arms and in the knowledge that he would never harm her.

Surely, if she was to live out the rest of her days in his netherworld domain, it would be better to do so in simple companionship than in the complication of enmity? Yet he didn't seem interested in friendship and Christine wasn't altogether sure it would be wise.

In the bath chamber, she released the lever that allowed hot water to rush into the huge basin. Jolene, in the days when the girl had spoken to her, told Christine that on the other side of the wall, coals burned in an iron basin below a thin sheet of rock that held the water piped in from the lake. No matter how much water emptied into her tub, new water replaced it, heated and kept warm by the fire tended morning and night so she could always have hot water. Genius…

Christine frowned, not wishing to think of _him_ again. He had probably once more told the children to ignore her. Why else would Jolene suddenly grow cold? And the one time Jacques came to play, his sister appeared minutes later and shooed him out.

Christine viciously slapped the water with her hand, batting it toward the wall. Her little burst of fury did nothing to relieve her nerves, and she blew a frizzed lock of hair from her eyes while adjusting the lever to stop the flow. Tearing her wrapper open, she prepared to submerge herself - and hopefully drown all irksome thoughts of the Ghost…who might as well truly be a ghost.

A splash from the other side of the wall made her start in surprise, and she turned her attention toward the hole. Surely, Jacques hadn't fallen into the lake during his play. The child would long be in bed. Perhaps it was a cavern mammal. She shivered at the thought of a rat huge enough to make that kind of splash, then her eyes widened at another horrid possibility.

_Mozart_…

She hurried to the table with her robe streaming behind her and stepped up onto the sturdy overturned box she had placed there, which once held towels, so she wouldn't need to lift herself to her toes to see.

Darkness ringed the inside edges of the rippling lake with a soft wash of moonlight glowing in its center. Three steady torches lined the walls, evenly spaced, casting their scant light on the dark green water. All else was in shadow.

Suddenly, something broke through the surface. Rivulets splashed on either side as the head and torso of a man surged upward from beneath the midst of the lake.

Christine's eyes widened. It could be no one but _him_.

With his back to her he used his hands to push his hair from his face. Sleek and longer when wet, it just brushed the tops of his wide shoulders. The moonlight above and the torchlight to one side was just strong enough to highlight the nuances of his flesh, pale and shadowed, gleaming from the water and defining a trim, lean-muscled body. The area where he stood was shallow, the water almost to his hips. She gaped and watched as he made a low dive then soon reappeared, his long body discernible just beneath the surface as with powerful strokes he swam to the other end.

Heat burned her face, spreading to her neck and chest, at the length of strong limbs and the flash of white buttocks, and she realized with a jolt of shock - he wasn't wearing any clothing!

She drew a faint breath into frozen lungs.

She should be scandalized. Self-conscious. Nervous. Upset. _Something!_

She should run back to her bed and try to forget what she'd seen. She should…

Her hands gripped the ledge more tightly, fervent curiosity and the desire to know more making her a voyeuristic prisoner. Dazed, she watched him swim in the frigid water, a slim part of her mind that still worked wondering how he could stand the chill, another part marveling at this first generous glimpse of the male form. Despite her innocence in such matters, she did not need to be told that he was in excellent shape, the remembered feel of those taut muscles against her body and beneath her hands inscribed in her mind.

She shivered with heat and burned from the cold. Her breasts felt strangely weighted, the heaviness also flowing deep inside her belly, that same wetness she experienced before dampening her secret curls. Her heart beat fast and wild. Try as she might, she could not look away from the view of such perfection and at once realized - he wore no mask!

With a new goal in mind, Christine craned closer to see, the rough stone lightly grazing the tips of her breasts, which tingled with feeling. She gasped at the sensation, clutching the stone rim harder so she would not fall.

The Phantom swam back and forth without pause, like a merman, sculpted with strength and imbued with grace. He had no tail, of course, and with a flush Christine found her brazen eyes drawn to that point of his anatomy. Stopping at the point she had first seen him rise, his breaths now coming harsh, he moved to the bank a short distance from her covert lookout point and rose from the water in partial profile, the left side of his form easily seen, the right in shadow. Water streamed down his pale, shimmering body from strong shoulder to slim hip and past chiseled thigh. Her curious eyes went wider, and her mouth parted with apprehensive wonder at the newest revelation of what mysteries his body possessed, the strange heat now a wildfire spreading to all points beneath her skin.

_Holy Mary…mother…of…_

The Phantom bent to retrieve a towel, abruptly straightened then turned, fully facing her.

Christine gave a little gasping shriek and stumbled backward to jump off the table, in her haste almost falling to the floor.

"God…" She completed her silent exclamation of the earnest supplication in a bare whisper. Clutching the wall, she closed her eyes and remembered the rest.

_Pray for us sinners…_

_Us sinners…_

She wondered how many commandments she'd now broken with tonight's wicked act.

_Now, and in the hour of our death…_

_Death…_

But she had already died. And now she dwelt beneath the earth, lost, with the beautiful dark angel, Lucifer.

Christine shook her head free of such fancy and forced herself to think.

Had he seen her watch him? The window was in shadow, but her focus had been elsewhere and she'd not seen his face in the moment he turned her way. Her only glimpse of the Phantom without the mask had been of the side not in darkness, what little she had seen then. A lean shadowed jaw, a defined cheekbone and brow, the straight slope of a nose, full sculpted lips, and skin as smooth and pale as the rest of him. His appearance was striking, clothed and unclothed, and the random thought sent another chill down her spine.

The sound of bare footsteps on stone coming from the other side and growing louder jarred her from her anxious semi-daze and she ran to her bed, foregoing the heated bath. A wall of stone separated them - surely he could not climb to the high window to watch her as she had watched him, would not even care to. But the thought of being naked in her bath as he was naked in the next chamber which, without the wall between them, was only a separation of several feet, made her feel vulnerable. Made her feel things she could not and did not wish to dwell on, and to her horror, fear wasn't the prevalent emotion it should be, as it had been before…

Without exchanging her wrapper for a nightgown - illogically worried that he might have seen her and would suddenly throw open the door for a confrontation - Christine pulled her wrapper tight and dove into bed, pulling the shield of thick covers over her. She worked to calm her breathing in the pretense of sleep when she heard a step outside her door. Squeezing her eyes shut, she desperately wished whoever it was to go away and let a breath of relief escape when for once her wishes were granted as silence filled the minutes, until at last she fell asleep.

.

**xXx**

.

Days before, on the afternoon following Christine's recent attempt at escape, Jolene had told the Phantom of his captive's secret request to write a letter. Grimly he allowed it, directing Jolene to bring it to him afterward. One look at the salutation- "My dear Raoul" - had been enough to incite his furious disgust. The remainder of the letter had him growl and crumple the thin vellum in his hand. She had not given the meddlesome boy her location, not that it would matter, but her sweet words of asking that he think of her fondly sometimes but not search for her seemed designed to appeal for a contrary act - a hidden plea for him to come find her.

And if the Phantom knew the annoying pest of a Vicomte, the boy would not resist.

The week had been difficult, the entire damned _month_ had been difficult. He had forged aloof distance, when all the Phantom desired was to draw Christine close and make her his. Usually he could repel those dark flashes of desire. But since he'd left her in her bedchamber shivering naked in his cloak, these past several days and nights had consisted of one trying test after another. To bring himself what degree of pleasure he could find disgusted him, the reprieve brief until the next sensual thoughts or dreams of her occurred, or, at tense moments, when the actual woman drew near. A late evening swim in the frigid lake several hours ago had been the only means available to cool his blood and exhaust him so that he _could_ sleep, what little of that he'd obtained. It had been a harsh punishment to burning flesh, but he was no stranger to pain.

And so, with the great amount of personal suffering he had self imposed - all _for her benefit_ - the Phantom now glared at his protégé and wondered what foolish frights and novel schemes she harbored in her mind.

Since she arrived for her lesson that morning, she had been meek, barely responsive, keeping her gaze absent from him. Her voice had shivered on the scales, which he demanded she repeat, and now wavered at the end of her warm-up - bringing his fingertips crashing to the keys in a rapid succession of frustrated chords that made her jump a few inches. Her eyes skittered to his then instantly dropped. A flush of red suffused her face.

He narrowed his eyes. "Is there something you wish to share? Something that took place between last night and this morning…?"

That brought her attention swiftly back to him; she seemed even more nervous if that were possible.

"Pardon?"

"This unfavorable change in your behavior. Yesterday you were spitting at me like a cobra. Now you are as timid as a mouse. And your pitch resembles the squeak of one."

She gave a small lift of her chin, a glimmer of fire returning to brighten her eyes. "You wish me to strike out at you like a serpent, Maestro?"

His smile came hard. "At least it would be in keeping with your character. And the venom might give life to your voice."

He rose from the bench. She took a quick step back.

"Again, you fear me, mademoiselle?"

She did not deny it and that further angered him, sharpening his frustration. He advanced toward her.

"Tell me - why…? What have I done to merit your absolute terror?" His queries came low and silken, dangerous in their intensity. "Have I harmed you, laid a hand on you? Have I not continually assured that I'll not sully your bed and defile you like a wild, lustful beast?"

"Please don't do this…"

Her whisper did not diminish his fury. She shrank against the organ and he grabbed her shoulders, giving her a demanding little shake.

_**"What will it take to convince you…?" **_

"Please don't!"

_**"What is it you require of me? TELL ME!"**_

_"It, it's not just you…"_

In the passion of his raised voice, he almost did not hear her meek whisper.

Her eyes were downcast, her expression pained. The gentle closing of her lids caused her lashes to flicker, her rosy lips trembling as she worked valiantly not to cry. A broken angel standing motionless in a demon's dark hold, offering no struggle as though she expected such a fate, expected to become a sacrifice…

And he remembered what he had tried so hard to forget…

And he knew then that she would never cease to remember…

With a soft anguished cry the Phantom pushed from her, whirling away so she could not see the torture burning in his eyes. He clenched and unclenched his fists in his own struggle not to give into the pain, silently cursing the foul parasite who had stripped an angel of her bright spirit and broken her wings to fly.

He wanted to hate her for all she had done, found he could not, and hated himself even more than he already did.

Had he been there…had he only been there…

The sudden tinkle of a bell on the wall brought his teary eyes toward it in shock, though he'd been expecting a signal like it for days. In the swirling chaos of his emotions, he almost laughed. He could not ask for a better diversion. A most fitting interruption to break this unbearable moment!

"Wait," his voice came hoarse, his smile bitter, "I think, my dear, we have a guest."

He turned to look at her.

"What do you mean?"

Christine anxiously looked toward the portcullis, seeing no one there.

"Though his stay with us must be regrettably short." His genteel words of remorse were feigned, no match for the light of triumph that flickered in his eyes.

Christine's chest felt tight; she couldn't draw breath. His eyes were golden wells of emotion. Moist with sorrow and regret, and somehow she knew those tears were for her. But they were alight with hatred and mad with a strange delight that made her shiver in dread.

"What have you done?" she whispered and looked toward the second of a row of five bells hanging on a rack, suspended from the wall at the other end of the organ. "Why did that bell ring?"

"Wires are connected to the handles. They lead to my main traps," he said dismissively and strode down the stairs.

_Traps?_

She ran after him. "Who have you trapped?"

"You expect me to know? Need I remind you that I've been here. With you."

"But you _do_ know," she insisted. "I see it in your eyes."

"I have my suspicions," he agreed and again turned from her.

This time she ran ahead of him. "Then you must help them!" She put a hand to his chest as if that might stop or persuade him. "Whoever is in there could _die_."

He chuckled darkly. "That, mademoiselle, is the point of a trap."

With wide eyes, she stared at him in horrified disbelief, slowly backing a few steps away. "You would do nothing, and allow such a terrible fate to transpire?" she breathed. "You truly _are_ a monster!"

His face, what she could see of it, appeared cut in white marble. "And that surprises you? Is that not what you've called me since the night you first came to these caverns?" His eyes burned into hers. "_**It is better that he die!**_**"**

"He…? _Oh, God…"_ She gripped his arm in certain dread. "Who do you have in there? _**Tell me!**_"

He sneered at her. "Look to your own foolhardiness and you will know."

Her mind raced backward and recalled the cautionary letter she had sent with the girl.

"The- the Vicomte de Chagny?" she whispered.

"To whom you so fondly refer as _'My Dear Raoul_.'" His words were fierce.

_**"You read my letter!"**_

"And it is because of you that he will take his last breath."

"No." She gripped his arm harder. "Please, no…"

He removed her hand from his sleeve as if it were an insect. "Do you wish to hear how he will meet his end?" His smile came wicked. "That chamber contains deep water, impossible to escape. An iron grate above lies horizontal. Once the trap is triggered when the hapless victim falls through the trapdoor - the signal of the bell - the grate slowly lowers. Assuming he can stay afloat, it will then crush its weary prey in a watery grave. Five minutes and it is over."

Horror made her tremble. "You cannot do this…"

The Phantom scowled at her with indifference and moved toward the cordon of passageways.

Christine stared after him, her mind numb with shock.

This was her fault - _her fault!_ She had defied her dark abductor once too often. Had she never written to Raoul begging him to stay away, he might have returned to England unharmed. He never would have so foolishly played the white knight and come looking for her and would not now be at the merciless hands of the Phantom. She had killed once by accident and necessity - but _dear God_, she would _not_ be responsible for the senseless death of a dear friend!

She raced through the damp corridor after the towering form of the menacing ruler of this underworld and grabbed his arm, falling to her knees.

"Please, spare him! He has a family who needs him. He's a good man and has done nothing to warrant this -"

He turned on her fiercely, making her cringe. "A _good_ man? How can you say that after what he did to you? And you call ME a monster! I never denied what I am, but your vision is pathetically narrow if you cannot see the blackness of _**his**_ heart. And now you kneel before me and plead for his life? _**You should want that piece of vermin dead!**_"

Unable to bear the sight of her groveling, he grabbed her by the shoulders and hauled her up to stand.

She shook her head in confusion, blinking away tears. "What do you mean? Why should I -?"

"Your foolish infatuation with his title and wealth blinds you to see the worthless scum for what he truly is. _Noble? __**Good**__?_ What of his attack on you - _**was that noble?**_" He shook her a little, wishing to bring her to her senses. "Damn you, where is your pride that you would wish to crawl back to him? I have rid you of the wretched fiend permanently - he can never hurt you again! Be grateful for that instead of collapsing into a fit of tears and pleading for the life of someone who never deserved to exist!"

"Raoul's _never_ hurt me! He's only ever _helped_ me."

With disgust he pushed her away. "Your lies will not save him! You forget, I saw the bruises."

He pivoted on his heel and briskly strode from her.

"It wasn't Raoul._ It was - my cousin."_

Her quiet admission stopped him cold, the shamed whisper of her last words resounding inside his brain and leaving him reeling. His heart seemed to stop dead then fiercely beat again, hard and slow, the ache unbearable.

_Henri_. It was _Henri_? Dear God…

He desperately wished he could force her to confess that she made up another wretched lie only to save her lover, but in this instance he knew she spoke truth.

And in that knowledge, he wanted to die.

He bitterly recalled the cur's violence toward her, the times he'd threatened Henri and fought the imbecile on Christine's behalf. But _this time_, this time he had not been there. This time when it mattered most, he had been absent, in these caverns, and she had been…

The Phantom inhaled a pained breath and shut his eyes, trapping the hot tears that welled within.

"Raoul helped me get away," she continued in a shaky whisper. "He's only ever helped me…"

The knowledge that the boy had come to her aid with his damnable heroics further sharpened the Phantom's regret and fueled his bitter loathing. His resolve strengthened. The only good foe was a dead one. She would despise him for letting the wretch die, but then that was his intent, wasn't it? To earn her hatred. To make her as miserable as she had made him when she cut out his heart and left his soul bleeding…

He heard her come up behind and shuddered.

"I beg of you, set him free."

He kept his eyes shut, wishing to shut her out as well, to forget all he now knew.

"If you do this for me, I'll do anything you ask."

He gave a wry, humorless laugh.

"_Anything_?"

"Yes…"

She took a deep, audible breath and laid a trembling hand on his shoulder.

"If you still wish it of me, I will marry you."

.

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: Nah, no cliffie here…just a pit full of water and a descending grate…**

**And as the plot thickens and the waters rise, Erik must make a decision…**

**Yep, all normal here.**

***dives into the water and escapes.**

**(Oh, and yes, I borrowed the line, which I love, from the movie.)**


	37. Chapter 37

**A/N: Thank you for your awesome reviews! Much thanks to my horridly overworked and highly talented beta, Nightsmusic (who I don't publicly thank enough. You are a true gem, my friend.) And now****…**

* * *

**Chapter XXXVII**

.

_I will marry you__…._

The incredible words coming so soft from her lips whispered through his mind and thoroughly rattled what senses remained. With his fraught emotions already in upheaval, the Phantom spun around and stared at her, narrowing his eyes in disbelief.

"What did you say?"

"I will marry you." She lifted her chin and looked firmly into his eyes. "I swear it, upon the condition that you save Raoul. But, if you do not help him in time, I swear I_ will_ _never_ become your bride."

"And if it is not that foolish boy but some other misfortunate soul who found their way into my trap?"

She furrowed her brow. "Then you must save whoever is there and give me your word that you'll never harm Raoul. And I will keep my promise."

"He means so much to you?" he barely managed not to growl the words.

"I owe him my life, many times over. I will gladly sacrifice my freedom to save his."

Her words were bitter gall to him, but the Phantom had little time to argue or waver in indecision. His master plan had included the death of the irksome boy. To gain what he most wanted he could forfeit that objective. On one condition.

"You must _swear_ to me never to seek him out again," he commanded. "Never even _to_ _see_ him again when you are above. If you do, if you go back on your word, I will kill him."

She frowned and nodded, but he was not yet satisfied.

"To marry me, it must be for life, Mademoiselle. And I demand the price this night."

She inhaled a swift breath, looking as if she might faint or flee. "I understand."

"But do you agree? I want your word!"

"I give it freely. I swear. I'll do anything to save his life and protect him from harm."

Her final words struck like daggers to his already tender heart but he nodded curtly. "Go then. To your chamber. Wait for me there."

The order given, the Phantom turned from her and swiftly took the corridor to a hidden passageway, a more perilous one that brought him to the water trap in less than half the time. Already, he might be too late; surely the five minutes for the grate to descend had come and gone. But upon nearing the pit, he heard the desperate gasps for breath. Moving closer, from his vantage point he saw the grate less than a foot away from pressing the interloper forever into a watery grave. One glance from his lofty perch confirmed that it was indeed the Vicomte.

Fierce hatred compelled him to walk away, to lie to her about freeing him, but what if she asked for proof? He knew her well enough that she might…

In disgust he warred over abolishing this newly made decision of his agreement with Christine against whatever slim conscience he had left. The boy may not be the fiend who harmed her, but the bastard had taken her innocence and stolen her heart - had seized all of what should have belonged _to him!_

Sheer contempt for all he'd lost made the Phantom wait and watch until the last possible moment to turn the iron wheel and stop the grate's descent. Another lever pulled back a block of rock to release the water from the pit, draining it into a large chamber and providing a means of escape. A long jump to ground, but the boy looked fit to tackle the leap, and if he broke a bone or two, that was not the Phantom's concern. He had promised to spare the fool's life and free him, not vow that he would come out of this ordeal unscathed.

A wicked smile curled his lips at the thought of the Vicomte hobbling away from the Opera House on crutches...

And if he should attempt his foolish rescue mission once more, the ignoramus would soon learn that he no longer dealt with a lowly gypsy servant but a formidable foe. The Phantom would never again lose to his enemy...

Christine would soon be his.

The boy held fast to the grate until the water level lowered to his shoulders then moved hand over hand to the hole in the wall, the exit leading back to the theater. The Phantom left, not caring to watch further. He had done as she begged him and now would put into motion the moment that had long been waiting in abeyance.

Upon his return to his chamber, he pulled a dress from the trunk where he had kept it sealed and protected and heard a gasp behind him. Turning, he saw Jolene.

"Take this and help prepare Miss Daae."

"A costume for the opera, monsieur?" She barely uttered the words as he laid the dress in her arms but paid little attention to her as he then pulled out the veil.

"It is her wedding gown. I am marrying her tonight."

**x**

Christine sat on her bed, motionless, and stared through the doorway, waiting for her fate to commence.

Reason told her she should be terrified and upset by what she had agreed to. But in her heart she felt nothing but calm to at last repay the huge debt she owed Raoul. _If_ the Phantom reached him in time. She shivered at the opposing thought. She had to believe he would get there before tragedy could occur and clung to that hope. Many times Raoul had saved her, and now at last she was able to return such a significant favor. He may never know of her part in buying his freedom with her promise to give up her own, but just the knowledge that she had done so gave her peace.

It was bizarre. She had just agreed to sign her life over to a man with the black soul of the devil and the voice of a celestial angel and a heart that lay buried deep in the shadow of mystery, neither entirely good nor evil. And yet, for all that, she knew no fear.

Never had she thought she would marry, the idea abysmal when not a union with the man she once so dearly loved, the man who no longer existed. Because she never anticipated that future with anyone else, it didn't seem like such a great sacrifice to agree to this phlegmatic alliance with the Phantom. Whatever his incentive for marrying her, and she doubted the reasons he'd given, she felt confident that he would not exert any husbandly rights to the marriage bed. She mistrusted him in all else, but this she did not doubt. He swore he had no physical interest in her, and the past weeks of his cutting indifference proved it.

As she sat there, something occurred to her, just one more fact to disturb the rest of what made no sense…

Jolene suddenly appeared at the door. In her arms she carried a white dress. Christine gasped to see it.

"He told me to bring this to you," the girl said distantly.

Christine watched Jolene lay the gown on the bed, along with a veil. Both shimmered with iridescence, lined in delicate tufts of lace rosettes. Even a simple glance revealed that neither of the pieces were of inferior quality.

"I need to speak with him," Christine said, looking away from the gown.

"He's going above to make arrangements."

"I need to speak with him now." Christine resolutely looked at the girl.

"I don't think -"

"Very well." Christine rose to her feet. "I'll go and find him."

"He said you are to remain here." Jolene looked aggravated with the entire situation. "I will find him and tell him."

"Thank you."

Jolene said nothing and left.

Christine felt strangely distanced from what would soon take place and reached for the libretto, not wishing her mind to take trails she would rather forsake. Working to memorize her lines and those of other cast members, she was unaware of the passage of time. A shadow suddenly came into view and she looked toward the doorway.

The Phantom stood there, staring. She set down the libretto and stood to her feet. Before she could say a word, he beckoned to her with his hand.

"Come."

One word had the power to shake her odd tranquility and leave her speechless.

"I would assume you wish for proof that I have fulfilled my end before you agree to undertake your part of our covenant."

Her mouth parted in shock that he had so aptly discerned her reason for an audience with him. "Yes."

"Then come."

She nervously approached. It was then she noticed a black silk scarf in his other hand. She looked at him curiously.

"As you do not trust me to keep my word with regard to that tiresome boy, I cannot trust you with knowledge to the way above."

She sucked in a sharp breath. Above? They were going _above ground_?

Her heartbeats escalating in excitement, Christine gave a slight nod. He moved behind her and pulled her hair back from her temples with his fingertips, the sensation sending tingles of shivers through her bones. She swallowed as he brought the silken tie over her eyes and fastened it in back, the world now in darkness.

"Take my arm," he directed, and she did so without hesitation. "Stay close beside me."

He began to move forward and she fell into step next to him. It felt unsettling to walk without seeing the path ahead and she clutched his arm a little tighter.

"Do not fear," he said quietly. "I will let no harm come to you."

Oddly enough, she believed him, and her apprehension of blindly moving forward began to wane.

They traveled for some time. A sudden chill suggested they entered another chamber. She had left her cloak behind and could not prevent a shiver. He took her hand from his sleeve and suddenly she was swathed in his warmth as he moved his arm around her back and enfolded her within his cloak. To maintain balance, she pressed her hand flat against his side, all the while fighting the strange weakness sifting through her at the proximity of his strength, not finding the experience entirely unwelcome. She ducked her head, wishing such thoughts away. It made no sense, it never had, but she felt safe with him.

Twice, they traveled up an incline. At times, he stopped walking and she heard the squeak of metal, as of a lever being moved, or stone rasping against stone, as a passageway opened.

"We approach steps that take us to the next level," he said, slowing so she could match his pace. Three times this happened amid stretches of endless walking. She wondered if they traversed the entire city underground.

At last the air grew warmer. The black behind her eyes became lighter, suggesting they were no longer in complete darkness.

"Stay close," he whispered, "not a sound."

The ground beneath her feet no longer felt like rock or made hollow tapping sounds, but now felt softer and her footsteps made thuds as if she walked on wood. He drew her close to his side as they traveled up yet another incline, steeper than anything before. More stairs, a short walk that felt strangely unsteady, as if the floor beneath them swayed, then he stopped.

"Remain silent," he ordered beneath his breath at the same time she felt herself turned against him and the scarf removed from her eyes.

They stood high in shadow, the lights from myriad lamps like so many glowing dots far below. Even faint light made her flinch from discomfort after her eyes had been so long in darkness. When she realized they stood on a narrow catwalk barely wide enough for both of them, she gasped, instinctively cringing backward.

"It's alright," the Phantom whispered, his arm tightening around her waist as he held her firmly to him, her back to his chest. "I will not let you fall."

She nodded. Without understanding why, she knew that no matter how dangerous the situation, he mastered control in these surroundings, which he'd made his own. That first day when she learned of his existence as well as the morning he'd created panic in the theater, he had concealed himself within such lofty heights. If the caverns were his home, then this was his playground. Without conscious thought Christine gave into the weakness she often felt when near him and slightly relaxed against his solid form as she concentrated on the images below.

The Phantom stood with her in the flies backstage in an area of the opera house she did not remember, the drop below at least three stories. Her hands quickly found his arm, clutching it at another wave of dizziness having nothing to do with his presence.

Below, the dancers were clustered in scattered groups. She couldn't hear their conversations but could tell something was astir.

The Phantom's arm not secured around her lifted to point into the distance.

"There," he whispered near her ear, his warm breath giving her chills.

She looked to where he pointed to see double doors had swung open. With his clothes sodden and hair hanging damp, Raoul walked in between the two managers as they exited the room. Christine's nerves relaxed with relief to see him alive, wet and untidy, but unharmed.

"The fiend must be found!" Raoul's angry voice rose to the rafters. "He's nothing more than a monster to create such traps. Why have you allowed him to get away with this? Why have you not tried to stop him before?"

"My Lord Vicomte, it is not that we haven't tried," the tall man with the dark mustache said from one side of him. "The gendarmes would not believe us."

"Indeed," the smaller, balding manager said, whose fuzzy white hair, mustache, and goatee reminded Christine of a billy goat. "This Phantom cannot be stopped."

"He's no true ghost. He's nothing but a man. Of course he can be stopped!"

"Come, we must return," the Phantom whispered, a slight sneer in his voice. "You have seen what you wished."

Christine nodded, but when he tried to tie the blindfold back on, she pulled away, as much as she dared while balancing against him on such a narrow walkway. "Please, no…"

"I cannot allow -"

"Just until we get down from here."

"You are not afraid of heights." He whispered the words as if certain they were true.

"No - but I don't wish to misstep. We stand on little more than a plank!"

"I brought you up here without mishap. Perhaps you wish only to draw attention to yourself when you see your precious lover draw near." His low words were hard.

She frowned, wondering where he had arrived at the conclusion that she was involved with Raoul, and it brought to mind her earlier insight. She offered no reply to his accusation, intending to question him later. She was weary of constantly having to defend herself to this man who seemed determined not to believe her.

"I have not screamed yet. I'll not scream now."

She felt his body tense and was certain he would refuse.

"Come then."

He took hold of her wrist. With everything in sight, it was a more harrowing walk than when her vision was blocked, and she almost regretted asking him to wait with the blindfold. They traversed a narrow catwalk in near darkness that even Mozart might creep along slowly so as not to fall. It put her in mind of some of the tricky climbs she had daily managed with Erik to reach The Summit. But she was out of practice and their only light came from oil lamps below. She glanced down at the performers, some now going about their business. Raoul had drawn near, almost beneath where they walked.

The Phantom's hand tightened around her wrist, as if also aware of it. Unbeknownst to him, calling out to her friend was her last desire.

Her dark guide led her down a short flight of stairs, the ground again solid and broad. Still in shadows, he tied the blindfold around her. They walked on and soon she heard stone grinding against stone, felt the cool air, and realized they must have returned to the secret passageway. More walking and descending followed until finally he removed the blindfold and she saw that they stood in the dank corridor near her bedchamber.

"Go inside. I will come for you when darkness has fallen." He turned to go.

"Monsieur?" She waited until he looked at her. "Thank you."

His eyes flickered in surprise, and he regarded her a moment before speaking. "We had a bargain, Mademoiselle. I have fulfilled my part. Now you must do the same."

"I am well aware of what is involved."

The Phantom gave a curt nod. Before he could turn away, she spoke again. "Why should you think that Raoul was the one …" She drew upon her courage to speak of what was so degrading. "…was the one to harm me? I never said his name."

He did not fully face her. "You have spoken of him before."

"I called him my close _friend_," she insisted. "If he had done something so horrid, do you truly think I would have called him less than an enemy?"

"I would hope not." He glanced at her. "But he can no longer be your friend."

She inhaled softly at his terse words. The Phantom once told her why he considered the Vicomte his adversary. Still, she did not understand such animosity.

"I know he can't."

"Let us hope you do, for the sake of all involved."

Christine watched him go, his cloak billowing about his ankles as he departed. She waited a few moments more then moved into her bedchamber to do what she must.

**x**

The Phantom took a different route, one difficult to traverse that involved partial climbing of a rock wall but no more treacherous than anything he'd done in his years before coming to the opera house. The shortcut brought him the last two levels above ground within minutes and to the doorway that led to the office of his aide. He spotted Madame Giry within a small bevy of boisterous dancers and caught her eye, a quick sideways nod of his head a signal for her to join him.

He arrived at the old storage room and waited. A matter of minutes elapsed before she appeared.

"Maestro?" She closed the door behind her.

"The matter of which we spoke weeks ago, when I said I would have need of your aid, that moment has come. All must be arranged within the next few hours."

She drew her brows together, clearly ill at ease. "When I agreed to leave the drugged wine in the dressing room, I did _not_ know that events would come to such a pass. The Vicomte searches for her every day. The entire opera house is in mayhem after what transpired less than an hour ago."

"I do not fear the Vicomte," he scoffed.

"Be that as it may, since he was caught in one of your traps, he now attempts to rally the men to join him."

"I said…" He took a step toward her, noting her quick step back. He worked to control his anger. "I do not fear that fool of a Vicomte. Had he not been so inquisitive, he would have remained unharmed."

"Why will you not let her go?" she asked quietly in appeal.

"She has agreed to this." He noted her surprise mingled with skepticism. But he had no inclination to persuade her. "Now it is up to you to do as expected. I pay you well, Madame. Make certain a carriage is waiting near the door at the Rue Scribe once night has fallen. I will need you to come along as a witness."

"My duties…"

"Lie with me," he ended for her. "Are we agreed?"

She gave a hesitant nod, and he quickly retreated back to the depths of his world and his captive bride.

Christine _had_ agreed, but still he did not trust her to fulfill her end of the bargain. She had proven her deceit, here and in England, though it puzzled him why she was so adamant for him to believe her most recent escape attempt had not been what he supposed. Even after he let the matter drop, she had tried to persuade him that her motive had been pure and she would never have left him.

At last he arrived to the doorway of her room...

To find her bedchamber empty, the wedding gown and veil lying on the bed.

His immediate fear that she had escaped led him to clutch both sides of the rock entry in angry disgust. Before he could storm away to investigate, he heard her voice, pure and sweet, singing from the bath chamber a ballad he remembered from their youth, one she had sung for him during their years living at The Heights:

_And he's followed her up and he's followed her down__  
__And it's into the room where she lay._  
_She hadn't the strength for to flee from his arms_  
_Nor the tongue for to answer him nay._

_"Go bring me some of your father's gold__  
__And some of your mother's fee,_  
_And we'll go to the north country_  
_And there we'll married be."_

_She mounted on the fine white horse__  
__And he on the dapple gray,_  
_They rode till they came to the sweet water side_  
_Three long hours 'fore day._

_"Light off, light off, my pretty fair maid,__  
__Light off, light off," said he,_  
_"For six king's daughters have I drowned here_  
_And the seventh you shall be!_

_"Take off, take off, your gay silk gown__  
__And hang it on the tree,_  
_For it is too fine and it costs too much_  
_To rot in the salt salt sea."_

_"Turn your back, turn your back, you false young man,__  
__And turn your face to the tree,_  
_It is not right that a villain like you_  
_A naked woman should see__…"_

All fell instantly silent, the song going unfinished. The Phantom walked away, upset by the silly little ditty. He frowned as he retreated to his private rooms.

Four long years ago she had thrown down the gauntlet that started this path of vengeance - but did she truly believe him so monstrous that he would willfully seek to hurt her in such a fashion?

The answer had been in the waver of her voice as she sang those final lines about the wicked elf knight and the deceived fair maiden. It, in turn, reminded the Phantom of the solemn vow he had made to her, to himself…

How could he expect her to believe he meant no harm after what she suffered at her fiendish cousin's hands? After the manner in which he himself abducted and threatened her, thinking to do so was necessary to fulfill all of what he wanted? And it well may have been. But this past month he had been as miserable as his captive. Even with the triumph of her eventual agreement to sing and to marry him he did not experience the sublime satisfaction he thought would be his.

The Phantom clenched his jaw with resolve. A change was needed before he drove them both to utter madness.

Even so, while it may come near to killing him, he would not be the first to cross the line. To lay claim to all of her - her body, her will, and her soul. To prove her suspicions true…

No matter that they were.

.

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: The ballad Christine sang derives from the 18th century: "Lady Isabel and the Elf Knight" - I've looked but cannot find the name of the original author since there are many variations of this song handed down through the centuries.**


	38. Chapter 38

**A/N**_**: **__**Merci beaucoup**_** for the delightful reviews! Loved them! You guys are great! :)**

**And now…**

* * *

**Chapter XXXVIII**

.

Christine bathed, dressed and took a seat in front of the vanity, brushing out her hair then adorning it…

These last hours had felt surreal, what would soon happen more so. But she was resigned to her fate and felt no misgivings with regard to her sacrifice. A white lady knight who had done what she must to fight off the dragon that threatened her loved ones. She smiled at the parallel, wondering how she could feel so composed. Within hours, she would be married to that dragon. Her calm outlook made no sense.

Nor did her conflicting reactions to be near him these past weeks.

One moment she feared what he might do, the next she felt safe in his presence.

She failed to understand her erratic responses, in particular the shocking effect he had over her emotions, which at first she blamed solely on his music, and there _was_ a lure there. But the music wasn't always playing.

It had not been playing the night he found her near the lake and, though he'd been enraged, had tenderly ministered to her wound…

It had not been playing hours ago, when he held her against his solid body as they stood dangerously high in the air upon a dangling catwalk and she felt they were the only two people in existence, observing an inconsequential world of unreality below…

It had not been playing during those instances he moved with quiet animal grace in a predatory circle around her, solely to intimidate but strangely seducing her mind to covet his nearness…

And it certainly had not been playing late last night when she received more than a maidenly eyeful of what lay beneath his elegant attire - the incident and its memory unnerving, intriguing …and better left ignored. Though forgetfulness had been impossible to achieve upon seeing him hours later, and awkward that her feckless mind kept jumping back to those moonlit moments, she'd been unable to sing or meet his eyes, stretching the cord of tension more tightly between them.

She was loath to admit it, even if only to herself, but in these past weeks there had been lucid moments, absent of her dreams, when she desired his touch…when he touched her and it felt…right. It astounded and confused all logic that she should wish for such a thing from such a man - a murderer, her abductor, who was clearly a little mad - and it left her making whatever excuse she could at those times for that flaw in her behavior. Which was surely also crazed to wish, even briefly, for what should never be. What _never_ _would happen_…by his word and owing to her history. She was damaged because of Erik, ruined because of Henri, and wished for no relationship other than the safety of the platonic that the Phantom offered.

_Did. Not. Wish._ For _anything_ more…ever. With anyone. And certainly not him.

Winding a ribbon through her hair, Christine stressed the words in her mind while she stared somberly at her reflection. She thought about their earlier confrontation, before Raoul fell into the trap. With regard to her panic when he drew near and his resulting outrage, she had told the Phantom it wasn't "just him," and it wasn't.

On occasion, his sudden movements reminded her of that last day in England, though she knew he would never assault her. He distinctly told her he had no interest in anything physical about her and gave her little cause to think otherwise. Still, she could not help those involuntary reactions when he would so swiftly move her way, which would sometimes bring a sudden flash of that terrible afternoon when Henri did the same and what remained of her life then had crumbled around her.

Strange, she had never experienced the reaction during those last hours with Raoul, when his movements toward her had been just as swift in planning her getaway. But he was always gentle and calm with her…The few kisses they shared more than a year ago never once made her body feel so alive, so warm and _needy. _Never made her dream scandalous dreams or think indecent thoughts she was mad to entertain with the manner of man the Phantom was. That also confused her, that in one month of knowing him _**he**_ should be the one to have instigated such unnerving occurrences, such wickedly urgent feelings…

When he had never even kissed her.

With Erik it had been all-consuming fire.

With Raoul it had been pleasant warmth.

She wondered what the Phantom's kiss might feel like…

Realizing the forbidden trap to which her mind had lured her, Christine quickly brought it to higher, safer ground.

Despite her violent contradiction of exasperating emotions, she had come to consider her time in his underground tomb of caverns as the resurrection of her existence, a second chance to live, to give breath to her dreams and life to her voice. To dwell in the music once more. He had made that possible, no matter that his objective was selfish.

The training was difficult, no doubt would continue to be, the long days of scant endurance often plodding into fretful nights. And as she sat there and waited for him to come for her Christine dwelled on past lessons of learning to sing his opera.

Of late, all she could do was silently curse him for his imperious and stern criticisms and instruction. Now she recognized that in his relentless fashion he was pushing her to excel beyond what she felt she had to give. In turn that sharpened her determination in their little war, to prove herself as the victor, better than he thought, and these past few days she had regained a morsel of her fledgling confidence that gradually had begun to flourish. His praise, rare like the find of a unique diamond, had stunned and delighted her when he gave it, pushing Christine in her desire to gain more of the same. No matter that she still didn't particularly like his opera story, he had offered her his beautiful music and given her back a part of her soul she once thought forever lost.

She owed him her gratitude. She owed him her loyalty. She owed him her voice.

Every aria, every ballad and hymn she once sung had been for Erik. But as the days progressed, she found herself singing for the Phantom, wishing only to please her teacher...

...who in the strangest irony of all _had_ become her Angel of Music.

She heard no step on the stones, no rustle of a cloak, but the awareness that she wasn't alone had her look over her shoulder.

The subject of her thoughts stood in the doorway, his golden eyes wide and glowing beyond the mask. Setting down her hairbrush, she stood to her feet. He followed her movements with an unwavering gaze.

"You look like an angel," he said quietly, taking in the shimmering folds of ivory and the manner in which satin and lace gracefully molded her form, twin sections of her ringlets woven and pulled back with a matching ribbon. It was the one gown that did fit and she wondered if he had made recent adjustments but didn't ask. His clear approval startled her and she could only stare.

"The dress suits you well," he added more gruffly. "Where is Jolene?"

"She never returned."

"You dressed yourself?" he asked in surprise.

With no corset to hamper her, it had not been as tricky, but of course she didn't tell him that. She lifted her chin. "I _have_ had some experience. I've been doing so since I learned to walk."

The corners of his mouth tilted in a slight grin, stunning her. She had never seen him smile in true amusement and without mockery. Her eyes remained on his well-sculpted lips, the bottom one slightly fuller than the top. A strange sense of the familiar shook her…

"I will seek her out," he said. "I shall return for you soon."

Before she could ask the reason for his interest in the girl, he left. In confusion, Christine sank back to her chair. The rumble of a purr sounded behind and she bent to take her cat in her arms.

"What do you think, Mozart? Am I mad to have agreed to this? Yet what other choice did I have...? Often I've wondered if losing Erik brought a state of madness. Our souls were linked, and I descended into my own darkness during that first year he left me. _You_ brought me out." She cuddled the cat close, pressing her cheek to his fur before setting him down. He rubbed against her skirts, his topaz eyes looking up at her. "Now, once again, I live in a world of darkness and with a man who's as much a mystery as the shadows, but I have none of the fear or the dread I should be feeling. Or perhaps, with all that has happened to me, I'm no longer able to feel…?"

The cat had no answer, but it seemed almost as if he smiled.

x

The Phantom soon returned, his jaw set like stone, his eyes snapping fire. "That damned girl is nowhere to be found, nor is the boy. Come! Don your cloak. We must go without them. I haven't the time or the patience to search these caverns endlessly!"

Christine quickly fastened her cloak at her throat. She didn't resist as he blindfolded her then took her hand and pulled her along.

The way seemed different but took as long as their earlier journey. They stopped walking, and she felt the black scarf stripped away. Before her stood an arched wooden door, which he unlocked with a brass key and opened. She blinked in surprise to see the exit led out to a street paved with cobbles. A closed black carriage sat before her. It was her first breath of the outdoors since he'd taken her beneath the earth more than a month before and eagerly she inhaled deep gulps of the fresh night air. He escorted her to the waiting carriage and helped her step up inside. A cloaked figure approached and swiftly the Phantom shut the door. Though she could not see, Christine could just hear his deep voice outside the carriage.

"Jolene disappeared," he told the newcomer. "Can your daughter be trusted…? Very well. I need you to find and bring her as a second witness. Hire a cab and follow quickly. Pay the driver with this. Do not have him wait.…"

The woman's answer came muffled and too low to make out.

The door soon opened, startling Christine who had craned closer in an attempt to hear. Flustered to be caught eavesdropping, she pretended great interest in arranging the folds of her skirts. The Phantom climbed inside the confined area, closing the door behind him. He took a seat across from Christine then knocked on the roof of the carriage. It took off with a sudden jolt.

Throughout the drive, he remained silent. In the dim interior, with the only light coming from outside a ridiculously small window that looked onto the street, she could see little of his form save for a faint glint of his eyes watching her. Casting her nervous gaze to the window, she kept it there, watching the city pass by.

"Why did you not scream?"

"Pardon?" His unexpected question had her look at him in surprise.

"At the opera house. On the catwalk. You did not call out for help…why?"

"You told me to be silent." Her words came without thought.

"And when have you ever willingly done as I ordered?"

She almost smiled at his dry tone. "Since the moment I made a vow to you to honor your wishes for me." She hesitated. "I didn't wish anyone harmed. You fulfilled your promise. I could do no less."

In the resulting silence, she again turned her attention to the outdoors, hungry for the sight of sky and trees and wishing to feel the wind on her face.

They left the city, the trees soon closing them in, until she could see nothing else. Once the carriage stopped, the Phantom helped her down. A small church sat nestled in the woods. Welcome light glowed from the tall, narrow panes. It had been a long time since Christine entered a church and she wondered if the Phantom had ever stepped foot in one.

Her faith, instilled in her with fearful and stern tenacity as a child, had been cast aside as insignificant after her father died, only to be revisited during her years of convalescence with the de Chagnys. She had found a measure of peace within the sanctified citadel, usually when it was empty and she'd been alone with her thoughts, the minister's recurrent fire and brimstone orations not conducive to serenity. But she had put matters of faith aside upon her return to The Heights, the situation there requiring her full attention with no time to attend morning services. Though Berta had always managed it, and perhaps Christine should have tried harder.

"Wait here," the Phantom said once they stood in the vestibule. She watched him move down the aisle and approach a robed figure who knelt in prayer at the front of the candlelit sanctuary. The priest stood to his feet. Both men became involved in discussion, the Phantom's deportment tense, as if he was asked questions he would rather not answer. She watched him withdraw a small pouch from his cloak and hand it to the priest, who gravely nodded.

The prolonged creak of the door alerted Christine to company and she turned. Madame Giry walked in followed by Meg. The ballet dancer's mouth dropped open.

"_Christine!_ Maman didn't tell me you would be here! Wherever have you been? Did the Phantom take you as they've been saying? Oh, but it's nice to see you again!"

Christine quietly smiled at her effusive greeting. "Your Mother didn't tell you why you're here?"

The fair headed dancer shook her head. "Only that she needed me for an errand. Does the errand involve you?"

"I think you're to be a witness."

"A witness?"

"Meg, enough," Madame Giry said, joining them. She looked intently at Christine, her blue eyes piercing yet oddly calm. "I have only one question. Is this _your_ choice? Or are you being coerced by him?"

"No, it's my choice."

"What's your choice?" Meg asked. "Coerced by whom?"

Madame gave a relieved breath and a nod. "Then we should proceed."

"Proceed with _what_?" Meg insisted, looking ready to stamp her foot and whistle for attention. "Will someone please tell me why we're here?"

"To attend my wedding," Christine answered calmly.

"Wedding?" Meg's eyes grew wide. "You're getting _married?_ But - to who?"

"To me."

All eyes turned toward the tall masked man who stood in the entrance of the sanctuary. Meg's eyes grew even rounder as he approached.

"Mademoiselle Giry, we have yet to be introduced. I am -"

"_The Phantom of the Opera,_" Meg whispered, clearly stunned to stand face to face with the living legend of which she'd been curious for so long. Her disbelieving gaze flicked to Christine, then back to him.

"In the flesh," he said wryly. "Now that you have seen me, I must insist that tonight's ceremony remain in confidence. You were never here. We never met. Is that understood?"

She nodded, clearly enthralled. "Who would believe me?" At his narrowed eyes, she hurriedly added, "The Vicomte and his cousin came to the opera house and asked about Christine. I told them nothing about you. You can trust me, monsieur."

He gave a slight, courteous incline of his head. "I am grateful."

It did not surprise Christine that the independent Arabella had also traveled in search of her, and recalling his conversation she overheard with Jolene, Christine felt assured that The Phantom would extend his vow not to harm to include her bosom friend, since he never once mentioned any umbrage toward the Vicomte's cousin.

With a frown, Christine watched the captivated young dancer and the cynical dark ghost. She found herself again wondering if Meg had been one of those to wander the corridors late in the night…

The Phantom turned to Christine. "Shall we, my dear?" He held out his arm.

Thrown by the unexpected endearment, she hesitated before wrapping her hands around his coat sleeve that shielded lean, hard muscle. Her fingers tightened for support as she walked with him down the aisle, at last aware of the significant moment at hand. Her existence would soon be forever changed. When she walked out of this chapel, she would be bound to this dark, mysterious man for one lifetime. Even in that revelation her sudden apprehension wasn't enough to eliminate the deeper, elusive knowledge that this was as it should be. As it _must_ be…

…even without Raoul as a bargaining chip.

Her breath stalled in shock at such a bizarre thought but she maintained an outward expression of calm. Her nerves must be playing tricks with her mind that she would think so strangely.

The elderly man in clerical robes nodded solemnly to her, his eyes kind. She should release the Phantom's arm but, afraid her knees might give out if she did, Christine clung, her entire body now trembling. She gasped when his gloved hand moved to cover hers in quiet reassurance.

The priest proceeded with the ceremony in rapid French. Christine felt as if she moved within a dream, none of this real. She knew very little of the language from her former lessons with Jolene and could only pick out a few words. The Phantom looked her way.

"Tell him you will."

"Will what?" she asked breathlessly.

"Agree to uphold all that is within the traditional vows. To obey, honor, and _love_, as long as we both shall live…"

"Yes - I mean, oui - I will," she said swiftly with a short nod to the priest, having no wish to hear more of the Phantom's low, derisive explanation. He was receiving all he ever wanted of her. Why must he continue to treat her with scorn, even mild as it was now?

The priest continued the sacred rite, and the Phantom responded with his part in French. He unfastened one of her hands from around his arm and slid a ring onto her finger. Christine stared in awe at the chill band of gold flashing diamonds, her eyes wide when they lifted to his. He gave nothing away by his expression. More French was spoken, and the priest made the sign of the cross with his hand in the air. The Phantom looked at her.

"It is done."

"Oh…"

She stared into his eyes, feeling lost. How could an exchange of words, in a foreign tongue no less, so drastically alter the course of her existence? Within seconds, she was recognized no longer as a maiden but as a wife. How was that even possible?

"Are you not going to kiss her, monsieur?" Meg piped up. Her mother quickly silenced her daughter. "But Maman," she insisted more softly, "everyone knows that such vows are not sacred without a kiss to seal the pledge!"

The Phantom's steady golden eyes flickered at the candid, idealistic words. Christine let out a soft breath, wondering what he would do, feeling both panicked and expectant.

"Well then," he said quietly, never taking his eyes off of hers. "I left no stone unturned to make this lawful. If it is a kiss that is required to bind such vows, I will concur. Permit me?"

Christine felt somewhat lightheaded as she gave the slightest nod of assent.

The Phantom stared into her eyes a moment more, his expression inscrutable, before moving his finger and thumb beneath her chin and tilting her face upward. She watched his head descend, her lashes fluttering closed when his mouth came within inches of her own. His breath faintly warmed her lips, mingling with her breath in the moment before his lips pressed to hers. His touch was soft, his manner gentle, the edge of his mask just brushing her cheek. A violent jolt shuddered through her, the manner in which her heart quickened and her body swiftly grew so warm beyond anything anticipated though she had not known what to expect…

And then, it was over, and he gruffly said they must go, leading her down the aisle and out of the church with the Girys following. Her mind in a daze, Christine hurried along beside him.

With no more said to the priest, a glance over her shoulder showing that he remained where he stood and gave her a silent nod of acknowledgement, she assumed now that he had fulfilled his purpose he no longer remained of interest to the Phantom. Though in remembering the small pouch exchanged she assumed he had been duly compensated.

The Phantom helped her into the carriage, then offered Meg and Madame a hand, both women sitting opposite of Christine. He then gracefully moved inside and took the empty place beside her. The feel of his arm and thigh pressed against hers on the short seat made it difficult to breathe with his kiss still so prevalent in her mind. She barely followed the conversation as Meg shyly questioned him on several issues, most of which he remained vague, though he did admit to being the creator of the traps, to which Meg enthusiastically praised as morbidly genius, earning her a chuckle from the Phantom and a stern "Meg!" from her mother. Christine could only be grateful that the girl didn't ask about his infamous nocturnal trysts in the corridors, or worse, if Christine had also been a victim…

Her mind turned back to the kiss…

"Christine?"

She came to the present with a start, looking at Meg. To her embarrassment, she noticed that Madame Giry and the Phantom looked at Christine as well.

"I'm sorry?" she asked faintly.

Meg looked at her queerly. "I asked when you might return and I might see you again?"

"I'm not certain," Christine hedged, "when my teacher feels that I'm ready, I suppose."

"Your teacher?"

"What my wife is trying to say is that she will be the new diva. Once I feel she has learned all she must, she will join the rest of the cast, and upon my pronouncement."

Christine felt a tingle of unreality to hear him refer to her by that title and to see Meg's eyes widen in profound shock a third time that night. "You" she silently mouthed, and Christine gave a slight nod.

At last they arrived at the opera house. The Phantom spoke with Madame Giry outside the door they had earlier exited, and Meg took Christine aside.

"I knew the moment you walked onstage that you were different, that he'd chosen you for something special," she said. "But I never suspected this! I thought you couldn't sing?"

Christine shrugged. "I lost the desire, but he gave it back to me and has taught me so much," she admitted.

"And now you're _married_ to him - and so soon!" Meg shook her head as if still unable to grasp the concept. "Tell me, have you known one another before? You must have…"

Christine shook her head. "We never met until the night he took me from the dressing room."

"But…why would he do such a thing! If he knew nothing about you?"

"He overheard me sing late one night, in the theater, when I thought I was alone. He wished to speak with me about making me a star."

"Really…? And you've been with him all this time?" Meg looked as if she wasn't sure what to believe. "You realize you're living out a fairy tale? Many from the chorus would give anything to be in your place. To train for the lead _and_ know the Phantom…? He's just as I thought he would be. Tell me, was it love at first sight for you?"

Her words brought back his towering image framed in the mirror, captivating and mystifying…how she had then swooned at the sight of his golden eyes behind the black mask…

She averted her attention to where the Phantom spoke with Madame Giry. "Something like that."

Christine let the young woman believe the false romantic tale she devised, loath to tell the true story of abduction, intimidation and submission. After seeing Meg again, one thing was clear. She had played no active part in her capture, and Christine was grateful, having once hoped they could become friends. Perhaps that was still possible.

"Meg, we must go," Madame Giry approached, the Phantom behind her.

"We'll talk more when you come back," Meg said, squeezing Christine's hands.

Christine nodded with a smile of farewell. "Of course."

The two women disappeared around the corner, and the Phantom again used the blindfold after taking Christine through the door. She didn't know why he bothered. The area was dark, though clearly he could see well enough, and she wondered if a life underground had altered his eyes to see in such deep shadows.

They traveled in silence, her mind a clamor of thoughts with regard to all that had happened that night. At last he stopped and removed the blindfold, and she found herself at her bedchamber door a second time. She clutched the rock edge of the entrance, not certain what he would now do. He had told her he had no interest in her, but those past words seemed to hold no substance as they stood several meager steps away from her bed and she realized she was now his bride. The ring seemed to close in around her finger and pinch like a narrow band of iron as she stared anxiously into his steady eyes.

He inclined his head in a parting nod. "I will leave you to your rest."

Her heart tripped and she watched him walk away.

"If you thought I would scream, why did you not gag me?" she asked suddenly.

He stopped walking. It was a moment before he turned to look at her.

"I wanted to know what you would do."

"Then…it was a test?"

Her heart beat in staccato while his flame-colored eyes felt as if they seared into her soul.

"It is late. Get some sleep. I will expect you for your lesson in the morning."

Hardly daring to believe he had let her go so freely, Christine watched him walk away and disappear before moving into her bedchamber. Looking at her reflection, she noted her wide, luminous eyes and flushed skin surrounded by the filmy veil crowned with a garland of white roses…noted the consummate beauty of the gown that made her look and feel like a storybook princess. He had spared no expense. The design, cut and quality of satin and lace was something any noble would be proud to wear and suited her form and features to perfection.

Sinking to the chair, she studied her wedding ring for the first time. A shimmering band of gold encrusted with a sprinkle of diamonds, it was far from ostentatious, elegant in its simplicity, the craftsmanship magnificent. And exactly what she might have wished for, the most beautiful ring she had ever seen…

Her eyes lifted to the mirror, her expression bewildered.

Nothing made sense. It never did, it never had, and likely it never would. She felt as if she truly did live within her own spectral and magical fairytale…

With a dark musical prince who, to her, was becoming less of a wicked ogre, and she could not begin to envision how their story would end.

.

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: …and neither can you, my dear readers. ;-)**

**(the details that is- you guys already know I'm E/C all the way! lol)**


	39. Chapter 39

**A/N: At long last… you can put your Punjabs away, my phriends. I give you (for my birthday, a present to you)…**

**The next chapter…**

* * *

**Chapter XXXIX**

.

Wavering at the precipice of sleep, Christine came awake with a start at the sudden jarring of her mattress near her shoulder. Scrambling up to a sitting position, she clutched the sheet in one tight fist to her breasts, at once realizing the culprit, who smirked at her with steady golden eyes.

"Mozart," she chided. "That was not at all humorous. Never do that to me again!"

Irritable from a never-ending night of troubled slumber - that is, when she finally _did_ sleep - Christine slid from bed with a huff. Hurriedly she washed and dressed, assuming it to be morning, not wishing to be caught yet again wearing only her shift. It felt as though a small eternity had elapsed since the Phantom left her at her bedchamber after the ceremony. At the sudden thought, she paused in buttoning her dress and stared at her reflection with wide eyes.

She was now married to her captor.

She had given in to every one of his demands.

Forever, she would now be the Phantom's bride.

Christine blinked. The title seemed inconceivable, the very idea bizarre, but she had only to look down at her hand and the ring winking at her to perceive the truth of its message…a message she had instigated to save and protect her friends. And even if she wasn't remorseful for her impulsive choice, for it had been the right thing to do to save a life, perhaps more than one, she couldn't help but feel a little jolt of fearful expectation as to what her sacrifice would mean for her future.

She knew relief that the Phantom had honored his promise to keep their vows in name only. At the same time she'd been surprised, even confused that he never once attempted to touch her. Despite his many assertions that he had no wish to bed her and her resulting certainty that he lacked the interest to try, his kiss in the chapel had remained in the forefront of her memory the majority of the night, mocking every claim of his jaded disinterest and holding her trapped in the exhausting preliminaries of uneasy slumber.

A simple press of their lips, it had felt like so much more. Seconds had become timeless, and in the fraction of a moment after he broke their connection, she had read what appeared to be longing in his eyes. She wondered if her own surprising reaction to him had clouded her judgment, since he then immediately snapped out that they must go and nearly dragged her from the chapel by the wrist, making her need to run a little to keep up with his long stride.

Giving one last swipe to her hair with the brush, Christine studied her reflection, noticing the dress fit better than it had two weeks before. She was finally gaining back some of the weight she'd lost these past four years, looking less like a skeleton, since she now gave into his demands that she eat whatever food he put before her. The de Chagnys had urged her to eat more but never forced the issue, and at The Heights she'd spent most of her time hard at work, taking meals only when necessity demanded.

"At this rate I'll need that wretched corset again," she mumbled. She caught Mozart's inquisitive stare in the glass as he walked to the foot of the bed and looked at her from behind.

"Oh, very well…" With a sigh she set down the brush and turned to scoop him into her arms. "I can't stay angry with you all day, and I suppose you didn't intend to frighten me awake. Besides, I need you as my buffer once I beard the panther in his den. Since you both come from similar pedigrees, I consider you a worthy ally. You also have claws and know how to bite."

She giggled at her foolishness and quit the chamber. However, any scrap of levity she had gained rapidly fled as she approached the Phantom's lair.

Her grip unconsciously tightened around Mozart. He squirmed. At the slight prick of his claws against her torso she let him go, watching as he jumped out of her arms and ran to the bench where the Phantom sat. The small black beast wrapped itself in devotion around the Phantom's leg, rubbing against his calf.

"Traitor," Christine muttered beneath her breath.

Although she knew he could not have possibly heard her, the man turned from where he sat at the organ, penning his eternal notes.

"Madame. You are early," he said in surprise. "Are you ready to proceed?"

Christine's heart gave a funny little flip at her new title, like velvet on his tongue, and that she was _his_ Madame. His wife.

_Dear God…_

"Yes, I'm ready for my lesson." She forced her vocal chords to respond, wincing when her words came out in a slight croak. "Jolene never brought my lemon water," she gave the tepid explanation, sure that her strained voice wasn't due to the absence of lemon but from nerves. With one look he could make her a mass of quivering jelly. She balled her hands into fists, determined to cease with such foolishness.

He looked at her and frowned, as if discerning the true reason for the croak in her voice.

"I haven't seen the worthless girl since yesterday. She has left, and good riddance. I will see to your water."

Christine gaped in surprise. "What of the boy?"

"Jacques is still in bed."

"Oh. Well, I'm sure Jolene will return soon." Christine again irritably wondered what relationship the young woman shared with her master. "I can't imagine she would leave Jacques behind…"

"I could care less if she returns at all, the ungrateful wretch." The Phantom rose from the bench and moved to the kitchen area.

His words of unconcern belied his tone, and Christine considered it best to drop the matter. She wavered in indecision then followed him. Standing in front of a chair, she gripped its back and studied his movements as he prepared the kettle for the stove. In everything he did, he moved with an assured grace, masculine and fluid. It was no wonder she so often compared him to a dark, nocturnal feline. He turned suddenly, catching her eyes on him. Quickly she dropped her gaze to a bowl of fruit on the table.

"I'll help," she said, grabbing a lemon from the bowl and a knife that lay nearby.

She took a seat and began slicing the lemon into thin rounds then halves as she had seen them arranged at the social gatherings she remembered. Her eyes strayed of their own accord, again taking in the trim form of the man to whom she now belonged and lingering in their wicked journey. The forbidden memory of the moonlit night invaded her contemplation at the same time he again swung around and caught her stare. The knife slipped and a stab of brutal fire surged through her index finger.

_"Oh!"_ She brought the injured digit to her mouth, the metallic taste of blood filling her tongue.

Instantly the Phantom was kneeling on one leg in front of her. "What have you done this time?"

"I let my mind wander," she said around her finger. " I'm sorry. I didn't sleep well."

She felt foolish for apologizing to him, wondering at the same time why she did, but at least it diverted the conversation from the true purpose of her little accident. She noted from the weary lines near his mouth and the redness of his eyes that he also looked as if he had passed a troubled night. That truth astounded her, to find and share such a human flaw. It made him seem less formidable, and though her hand throbbed dreadfully, her tension to be near him eased. Even if his discomfort surely must have been because of the missing girl.

"Let me see." He pulled her finger from her mouth. The moment the air hit it, the blood quickly welled in a thick line along her skin.

"You little fool," he said gently, "you should never handle a knife when you're daydreaming."

"I didn't say I was daydreaming," she argued sullenly.

"You let your mind wander, which is the meaning of the word. Hold still while I tend to this…" He shook his head in mild aggravation. "Do you never cease in causing harm to yourself?"

Christine frowned. "I didn't ask for your help. I can manage on my own -" She tried to pull her hand away, but he tightened his grip.

"Stop."

His eyes met hers, steady orbs of liquid gold, and her breath caught. She felt powerless to refuse his quiet command, powerless even to move. As if his eyes alone had put her under a spell.

He wet a cloth in a basin, pouring water over it from the kettle. Holding her wrist with his other hand, he lightly patted the blood away. Instantly another thick line of red filled the area, forming a large ruby bead that broke away and trickled down her hand. He frowned, inspecting her finger.

"It looks deep. I'll need to bandage it to stop the bleeding."

Her finger throbbed with heat, the icy chill of the water having little effect, and she caught a trickle of scarlet with the damp cloth before it dripped on her dress. He made a cut in the dry cloth, then tore it in a long, thin strip and firmly wound it around her injury, at last tying it off in a knot. He studied the mummified finger. "No blood seeps through. A good sign. Perhaps I won't need to sew it closed."

The horror of that possibility faded as she watched in stupefied wonder while he drew her finger to his lips and gave the cloth binding the cut a soft kiss.

_She was fourteen, determined to prove to Erik that she could do whatever he could and do it just as well. Despite his warning of the rocks being more slippery than usual at the stream near the church, she leapt to the next smooth boulder as he had done, but lost her balance and landed on her backside in the chill water. His roaring laughter ebbed when she didn't immediately rise and attack him for laughing at her._

_Ignoring the stepping stones, he sloshed through the water to where she sat in the icy stream. "What's wrong? Why are you just sitting there?"_

_She blinked back the tears stinging her eyes, determined she would never again give him just cause to treat her like a baby. "Nothing's wrong. Go away." She put the sole of her slipper to his leg, pushing him from her and winced once she pulled her hand up from the rock bed. Embedded there was a sliver of sharp stone, blood smearing her palm._

_Instantly he was beside her, his manner concerned. He pulled the rock out, wincing when an unwanted moan of pain escaped her lips, and she bit them hard to curb another infantile cry, blinking fast to whisk away the tears. He pulled his kerchief from his neck, dipped it in the stream, and wrapped it around her hand, tying it in a knot._

_"Silly child, have you not yet learned that you can never beat me at anything?"_

_Riled by his arrogant words and that he always saw her as nothing more than a small girl, any hot retort she would have given had numbed against her lips when he brought her palm to his mouth and kissed the area where the stone had severed her skin…_

"Madame?"

The Phantom's low voice snapped Christine from the memory of that bygone day.

"Are you feeling ill? You look as if you might collapse."

"No…I…" She looked at the hand he still held then at his mouth. "I was remembering when I was a girl and fell and cut my hand. A friend bandaged it then, just as you did now." She tilted her palm upward. "See. The scar is faded but still there. He…he kissed it too."

His lips thinned. "My apologies. I should not have -"

"No, it's alright."

He remained immobile then nodded once, his eyes giving nothing away. "Your friend, I presume, this young man of whom I remind you. Erik."

She was surprised he spoke the name so calmly, having been very careful not to say it due to their last heated conversation involving her deceased love.

"Yes." Her reply came weak. "It was Erik who helped me. He always was there for me."

The Phantom stood to his feet, and turned away, wiping her blood from his hand with the cloth he'd torn.

"I think it is an inherent trait for most boys and men to come to the aid of fair damsels in distress. But never mistake me for a princely hero of your storybooks, Madame. I may share certain traits with this Erik, may even resemble him in appearance, as you have so tirelessly noted, but I am still the monstrous villain I warned you of that first day and rotten to the core of my black soul."

Clearly, from his terse reply, she had made him angry by speaking of Erik again. Her eyes flickered down and she stared at her wrapped finger. After a moment, she again looked at him. "Devil or not, I thank you for your kindness, monsieur."

He turned and stared, his eyes intense and unreadable, causing her to inhale a little breath and hold it. His attention lowered to her mouth, and she wondered if he could see how her bottom lip now trembled. Giving a curt nod he resumed his task and put the kettle back on the stove.

The Phantom did not look at her again.

Christine could not seem to stop looking his way.

.

**xXx**

.

At the sound of a faint sniffle, Arabella's attention broke away from her restless tenure of endlessly staring out the hotel window. Much as she had caught Raoul doing, what seemed a lifetime ago at The Grange. Only he'd held a stout drink in his hand, and all she had was the Frenchman's idea of morning refreshment - neither tea nor coffee, it consisted of liquid chocolate. Normally the sweet drink engaged her delight. Now she frowned, setting down her cup, barely touched.

"Are you not feeling well?" she asked the young maid whose back had been to her since Arabella entered the sitting room. She recognized the young woman who'd brought her the requested exchange of pillows on her first night at the hotel. Then the girl had seemed distracted but polite. She had since been assigned to their suite of rooms, but with her mind on Christine's disappearance or whatever her and her cousin were discussing at the time, Arabella paid little attention to the maid's brief visits to clean, collect or deliver. With Raoul having slipped out of his room before Arabella awoke, she was now alone and had been for hours.

The maid remained busy with her dusting. Without turning she gave an abrupt nod to Arabella's query. Normally Arabella would have let it go at that, but something about the girl's awkward stance and jerky motions unsettled her mind.

"You don't sound well," she said, when the girl gave another faint sniffle. "Sit down for a moment and rest."

"Oh no, my lady. I cannot do such a thing." The girl shook her head, still not looking at her. "It is only the stirred dust."

Arabella had never heard her sniffle while undertaking the task before. "Dust or not, of course you can sit down for a few minutes."

"My manager, he would not like it."

"Well then," Arabella insisted in a soft, pleasant voice. "We shan't tell him. Now please. I should like some company. With my cousin absent and this foolish tickle in my throat keeping me bound to my room during this dratted rainfall, I very well might start talking to the furniture if you don't comply with my wishes."

This earned her a choked giggle and Arabella smiled.

"What is your name?" she asked.

"Giselle."

Giselle had brought two teacups, as she always did for Arabella and Raoul. Arabella filled the second cup with the thick drink, then set it on the table across from where she took her usual seat.

Giselle finally turned away from the mantel, keeping her head lowered. However, she was unable to hide her blackened eye, the new manner in which she'd fluffed her light colored curls near her temple to cover the bruise hardly acting as concealment.

"Sweet virgin, what happened to you, child?" Arabella tried to cover her horror, sensing Giselle might flee if she gave into it. She motioned to the chair opposite, and hesitantly the girl slunk onto the cushioned seat. "Did someone hit you?"

"No. No one did." Giselle's reply came hasty, her fingertips going to her cheekbone, to cover the dark violet blemish. "I was where I should not have been. Another maid opened the pantry door too fast as I was walking to it from the other side."

"Hmm." Arabella eyed her closely, doubting her claim. Her lashes were moist, her nose pink, and she gave another little sniffle. Stirred dust? Hardly! "You've been crying. Are you in much pain?"

"It is nothing." The girl dismissed her bruised skin as if she was accustomed to receiving blows, fueling Arabella's suspicion that the girl had been struck. The maid still would not meet her eyes, growing more uneasy by the second.

"If there is any way I can help, you have only to tell me. I can be discreet…"

The maid burst into a sob. "You are too kind, mademoiselle, you and your cousin. I do not deserve your kindnesses. Or to sit at your table. I should go." Giselle made as if to rush away in a flurry, but Arabella grabbed her wrist in a firm, non-threatening manner.

"Calm yourself, my dear. Why should you think of yourself as undeserving?"

"The monsieur almost died because of me!"

"What?" Arabella looked at the girl in curious shock. "The Vicomte?"

Giselle nodded, shamefaced.

Arabella grew alert. "Then - you know of this Phantom who terrorizes the opera house?"

Giselle remained silent a moment, nervous to speak. "No. I know the girl who works for him. She once worked here. She was the one who gave me the message for the Vicomte…" She lowered her head. "So you see, it is because of me he almost drowned."

"Don't blame yourself, Giselle. You bore no ill intent, and my cousin is dogged in his goals. He would have found a way inside at any cost…"

A glimmer of hope for exoneration sparkled in the girl's delft blue eyes.

Arabella felt a little jolt of victory. Raoul kept her uninformed of his plans, claiming he wished to protect her from "the unknown dangers of the Phantom," and had told her little of what occurred yesterday - a cloudless afternoon when he returned in a stormy mood and sopping wet to their sitting room. His only explanation had been terse - that he had acted on information leading him beneath the opera house where he'd fallen into a well of water. He had refused to divulge more than that.

Arabella did not condescend to being treated with kid gloves, her unconventional streak far from tamed during her years at the elite ladies academy. She had accompanied Raoul to France with a purpose as dominant as his own - to find Christine. And no one, not even her well meaning but obstinate cousin, would prevent her participation. Since he excluded her from _his_ search, it was time to initiate _her own_ strategy.

Raoul underestimated her worth in such matters. Arabella had orchestrated a number of schemes at boarding school and rarely been caught. Those few times she had not been fortunate to escape accusation, she'd been convincing in her pretense of innocence, without casting blame elsewhere. Or she had behaved in a meek, repentant manner, reverting to the "good girl" of her former reputation, so much so that the headmistress relented and she never suffered a severe punishment. Perhaps, in retrospect, as a grown woman she should now be ashamed for her little deceits. But her cunning had been one reason the girls chose her as leader for their innocuous mischief and girlhood frolics.

Arabella now leaned forward, barely able to temper her excitement at this new scent of adventure, to become the leader once more.

"Do you and your friend see each other often, Giselle?"

"Oui. Often when I go to market, Jolene is there. We shop for food on the same mornings."

Arabella smiled, outlining her next move in her mind.

"Drink your chocolate, dear, before it grows cold. I am quite interested to hear more."

.

**xXx**

.

After her reckless incident with the knife, the morning progressed smoothly. Much to Christine's surprise, the lesson went better than at any time she could remember, though her teacher remained typically stern. Yet he did not berate her for what she considered inconsequential details and not once did their voices rise above normal speaking level.

The first time that had ever happened.

Once Jacques entered the lake chamber, the Phantom ordered the usual respite for morning tea. Christine had discovered a week ago that instead of rising early to eat hours in advance, she preferred to break the fast after morning practice, which strictly concentrated on the nuances of training her voice. The afternoon and evening practices were devoted to the opera itself. Much to her surprise, the Phantom had not begrudged her this small preference.

"Since Jolene isn't here, I'll cook," she said, hoping he would take her offer as the proverbial olive branch and they could at last have some degree of amity between them.

She saw the surprise flicker in his eyes. "If you wish…" He gave a curious nod of assent. "Be assured, I do have ointment for burns."

With a haughty sniff, Christine brushed past where he remained seated at the organ, paying his blithe mockery no heed. His inference that she would prove to be a hindrance in the kitchen came as little surprise, given the start of their morning, and she felt eager to prove him wrong and wipe that smug expression from what she could see of his face beneath the mask. The bulky bandage troubled her slightly but soon was forgotten as she set about making the meal, humming while she did.

She whipped eggs with a fork, blending them with cream, cooked and fluffed over the stove, as Netty had taught her, sliced the bread from yesterday then toasted the pieces on a wire rack over the oven fire. They ended up on the dark side, since she toyed with the bandage the Phantom had devised for her, (while her feckless mind revisited the memory of the incident) - and she brewed the customary pot of hot tea.

She made enough for three and turned to announce the meal complete, disappointed to see the Phantom nowhere in sight.

"What…" Her slow breath of a word trailed off in puzzlement as she moved to the bank of the lake, to see the whole of the chamber.

Yes, he had disappeared at some point.

_The ingrate._

Christine frowned. Calling out to him, should he be lingering in his bedchamber or in the corridors beyond produced no results. Of course she had not prepared the meal with him in mind, but he could have had the decency to tell her in advance that he would be absent.

As she fumed while scooping servings onto two plates she realized she had not once seen him eat. She paused in her task. Surely, he must eat - he was mortal - even if he behaved like a devil at times. She doubted his reason for abstaining from food in her presence was due to his mask, since the bottom of it just touched his upper lip but certainly wouldn't prevent a utensil's entrance, and he had screamed at her enough for her to know he could open his mouth without the stiff leather hampering movement.

His unexplained exit left her to fend off the perplexed stares from Jacques, who clearly wondered where his sister was as he pointedly looked at the empty chair where Jolene often sat, then at Christine as she set the platters down and took her seat at the end of the long table.

Leaning forward toward where he sat in the middle, she slowly spoke, exaggerating the movements of her lips so he could follow what she said. "Your sister will return later." She hoped that was the case, for the boy's sake.

He nodded brightly and dove into his food, relieving Christine that she had so easily and successfully dealt with his curiosity. Not only had her lessons in French ended with the return of Jolene's antipathy, learning to use her hands to communicate with Jacques had also ceased. Yet if she had thought eating a meal with the lad would be quiet and without interest, she was mistaken.

After a few bites of toast, Jacques took a nibble of egg then piled his serving in a tottering heap with his fork. Trekking the demon soldier he'd brought with him over the table and up to the scrambled egg mound, he swatted with it as if to demolish a fortress, while making sounds at the back of his throat. She'd heard him hoarsely laugh before, so wasn't surprised to hear him emit sound. Now he let out grunts with each swat of the demon soldier against his egg.

She didn't know how to gain his attention and chide him to stop playing with his food, other than to leave her chair and approach him or to wave her arms like a madwoman, since the boy's attention never left his pretend battle. So she let him be. It wasn't her place to correct him, her experience with children non-existent, the short time she spent helping with her baby cousin hardly giving her the knowledge of how to manage a five-year-old child. Besides, his antics amused her while she ate. Clearly he wasn't enthused with the eggs. Jolene often made porridge topped with a dollop of cream. Christine had thought to try something different, but the boy obviously wasn't interested.

Looking down at her plate, Christine let her mind wander to the events of the previous evening…going up above while blindfolded and clinging to her captor's solid warmth for protection…her first delicious breath of the fresh night air in weeks…the bizarre outing that had taken her to be forever linked to the man known as Phantom…the same who had so tenderly seen to her wound…and disappeared without a word…

She bowed her head, her gaze going to her bandaged finger. A bite-sized piece of toast fell from the top of her head to her plate. She hadn't even felt it land she'd been so absorbed in thought. With curious surprise, she looked at the torn morsel compressed into a ball like a spitwad, then up at the boy.

Jacques was the picture of all innocence making furrowed indentations with his fork onto his eggs. Christine was not fooled, but spotting Mozart sauntering toward the table, she bent down to set the saucer of cream she had earlier prepared on the ground. As she straightened, she distinctly felt a wet spongy splat on her neck. Stunned, she swung her head around, catching Jacques who held his spoon up by the handle, treating it as a catapult and his food like bite-sized missiles.

Christine stared with her mouth open in shock, earning her rasping laughter from the boy, who took a piece of egg as she watched and fired again. This time it hit Christine above her cleavage, dropping inside her neckline. The recollection of similar fights of food with Erik, both of them as children laughing and dodging a shrieking Netty and her broom made Christine smile.

Taken back to her girlhood, she grabbed her own catapult and the last piece of toast, tearing it up into morsels for her arsenal. Jacques gaped in surprise when she used her own spoon as a catapult. A simple game of firing food soon led to a chase around the table, good-natured shrieking and a dose of merriment that dispelled all the dreariness of previous days. She laughed in victory when her doughy missile hit him between the eyes then shrieked when he flung his goblet with what was left of his water her way. Her eyes widened in alarm when he then grabbed a silver platter with the remaining eggs.

Realizing his intent to hurl the entire thing, she cried out, "No, Jacques, no!" at the same time she dropped to her knees and ducked beneath the table. The platter went flying and landed with a resounding crash that seemed to go on forever on the stones. When silence returned, she moved her body around to look that way. Her heart froze to see a pair of men's polished black boots with bits of egg covering their tops.

Oh dear God no…

Wishing to remain hidden beneath the table for the unforeseeable future but knowing that was foolish since he had obviously seen her duck beneath, Christine gathered her courage and what shreds of dignity she still possessed. Despite her dishabille, with bits of egg sticking in her wildly tousled curls and water spotting her dress, she crawled into view on her hands and knees, looking up at her captor.

The explanation she had primed herself to give died on Christine's tongue at the sight of the Phantom standing stock still with bits of egg smearing the front of his pristine vest and waistcoat and the platter lying at his feet.

He crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at her.

She gaped up at him and blinked.

"Well?" he finally said. "I cannot wait to hear your explanation for this."

"I didn't think you'd be joining us for morning tea."

The moment the words most prevalent in her mind escaped her mouth, she realized how inane she sounded. A match to her present state of appearance, to be sure.

"For a food fight - or actually to consume the meal as it was meant to be taken?"

Her surprise doubled at his calm rejoinder. He shook his head slowly then stepped forward, holding out his hand.

"Do you intend to stay down there?" he asked wryly when she only stared at his long slender fingers extended toward her.

Awkwardly, she accepted his hand, finding its warmth strangely unsettling, and rose to her feet. She broke the connection quickly, trying to eliminate the tingles his touch had caused by rubbing her palm against the side of her skirt. Her action did not go unnoticed and he frowned.

"Perhaps you would care to return to your chamber and freshen up before we continue with practice?" he suggested in a velvet drawl, his golden eyes now giving off a distinct chill.

She had always associated the color gold with warmth and flame, and often his expression showed the latter - fierce and angry and passionate. But since living in his underground home, she now knew gold could be like ice too. Cold and hard, like the streaks of color that ran through the chill cave walls.

Disgruntled at being caught in such an embarrassing state and perturbed by his aloof manner, Christine gave a short nod and hurried to the exit. Once she walked no more than a few feet from the lair, she had second thoughts about leaving the boy with him. She was a grown woman, she knew better and should have stopped the food battle once it started, not encouraged its continuance. Taking a deep breath for confidence, she retraced her steps to make certain that Jacques did not suffer the Phantom's certain wrath.

The sight before her eyes halted her calculated entrance.

The boy had approached the Phantom and grinned up at his looming form, clearly not one bit anxious or repentant for his misdeeds. The Phantom shook his head in a long-suffering manner, then hauled Jacques up under one arm, settling him on one hip and giving a firm swat to his backside. The boy laughed and the Phantom repositioned Jacques so that he was hanging draped over his arm at his side, his manner not angry but almost…playful.

Christine gaped in shock to witness such ease between the two as she watched the Phantom carry the boy to his bedchamber and likely to Jacques's room to clean him up. Long after they disappeared from sight, she remembered to step back from the opening. She moved slowly so that her shoulder blades were pressed against the cave wall.

The scene shouldn't surprise her as it had; Jacques was the Phantom's son. It made sense they would share a special bond, and she had witnessed their rapport before this. But suddenly she wished to experience that same ease with the man and no longer wanted to continue with the polite and detached hostility that had become their method of communication. They were now married and though it was in name only, she desired a change…more than grudging tolerance or indifferent acceptance. She wanted true companionship.

Stunned by her mind's full disclosure, she slowly made her way to her bedchamber. She wasn't sure of the exact day when her antipathy toward him began to fade; she still resented how he drugged her and brought her to his perilous maze of underground caverns, holding her imprisoned against her will. But that knowledge didn't lessen this new desire to forge a truce, and she decided to be the first to cross the battle line they had drawn, by asking him to stay and dine with her after practice.

More than anything, she wished to share a meal with him. Tonight.

After such an eventful morning, Christine nervously wondered how the Phantom would respond to her hopeful invitation.

.

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: I decided to go light with this chapter since you guys don't get many like that. For those who love intense drama, don't worry, much more angst is ahead…for those waiting for certain …other things (judging by reviews)…yes, we're getting close… ;-)**

**Thank you so, so much for all the reviews. Baskets of red roses thrown to all of you. :)  
**


	40. Chapter 40

**A/N: Thank you for your fantastic reviews! (note: because the word "a capella" was "alla capella" in this time period, I used the archaic spelling. Also it made for easier reading at that point.) To get this to you more quickly I dispensed with sending to my beta and waiting another week or two, so forgive any errors. And now****…**

* * *

**Chapter XL**

**.**

Once Christine tidied herself and exchanged her dress for a clean one, she retraced her steps to the Phantom's chambers. In her head, she repeatedly went over how she should phrase her dinner invitation, tossing aside every idea either as too informal or too verbose. Wondered also when she should broach the subject, dithering on whether to do so at once or to wait until after her practice ended.

To do so at once would just as swiftly calm her nerves over the matter of issuing the invitation.

To wait might help ease her nerves, but it could also very well cause her to lose her courage.

She straightened her shoulders in affront at the wayward thought, pressing her lips together in determination. She was no coward! And certainly she did not fear The Phantom. Once perhaps, in the week she first arrived, but no longer…

Another curious truth in the hodgepodge of those that made no sense.

The matter was summarily ripped from her control upon seeing his grim expression at her entrance. "We have lost precious time, Madame, and tonight I will need to cut the practice regrettably short as I have business to attend above. Come now. Do not dawdle. Take your place for Act III."

With her carefully framed selection of an invitation crumbling to dust in her mind, Christine hid her disappointment and quietly moved to her spot.

He had explained the blocking procedure that would be expected of her on stage, training her here in his lake chamber to stand where expected at each moment of the production and never drift out of her tight circle. Remembering the near fatal end of La Carlotta and the falling statue, Christine took such directions seriously. She doubted he would topple any of the scenery on her own head if displeased, but ballet dancers had strictly choreographed steps and she wouldn't wish to stray into their path and cause a collision.

"From the top if you please," he instructed, stepping away from his organ and down the stairs to join her.

Since last week, once she learned the songs with the music he played, he often dispensed with the instrument so as to scrutinize her portrayal of her role while she sung alla capella.

He stopped her midway through the first verse.

"Keep your mind on the opera," he barked. "Cease to daydream. It is clear your mind is on other things."

Other things, yes. Such as what business had arisen to produce his need to end her practice early, the very idea that he would do so shocking. She had thought nothing, save for the world's utter destruction, would preempt the longevity of her practices. Not when each day he stressed what little time they had left for her to learn and excel. _Nothing_ to him was more important than the business of his opera. His task must be life threatening indeed to cause him to end practice early - not that it was any of her concern. She would welcome the rest, he had been working her so hard of late.

"Why are you frowning?" He interrupted her disparaging train of thought, and she lifted her eyes from the restless water to his face. "Aminta is eager to meet her Don Juan in the orchard. You look as if you're preparing to visit your own execution."

"My apologies, is this better?" She smiled, baring her teeth at him.

He threw down the sheaf of papers he held with an angry whisk of his hand. They flew across the stones in a wash of bleached parchment.

"Must you fight me in every damn thing, Christine? Can you not simply do as you're told without rancor, or must we forever engage in these fruitless battles?"

The unexpected sound of her given name coming from his lips, even growled in anger, caused her heart to give a little lurch, but outwardly she remained unaffected. Reminded of her prior decision and the farfetched hope for amity between them, she clenched her jaw tight and gave a curt nod of assent. She didn't know what had happened between now and the end of morning tea, when she spied him being playful with Jacques, but the surly beast was evidently in residence again.

"Gay and frivolous. Understood. Shall I start over, Maestro?"

"Please, if you would be so kind." He inclined his head in polite mockery.

Biting back an equally sarcastic retort, she achieved what she hoped came off as a blithe expression. He grunted something incomprehensible but waved his hand for her to continue.

Her curiosity got the best of her. "Did you say something?"

A trace of amusement that had heretofore been missing flickered briefly in his eyes and at the corners of his lips. "Only that when you put your heart into it, you are a most sublime actress, Madame."

She narrowed her eyes at him, the complimentary words sounding suspiciously like a decided insult.

_A truce_, she reminded herself again. This steady quibbling to and fro was getting them nowhere. In that matter alone she acknowledged a shared mindset.

Three times he stopped her for what she felt were inconsequential matters, but she bit the side of her tongue and bore his criticisms. How on earth could he tell _how_ she breathed or whether she did it through her diaphragm or not when he stood that far away? Her singing sounded no different, certainly not "constrained" as he scolded. But she stood even taller, retaining the carriage he'd taught, though now her actions felt stiff and unnatural as she raised her arms to the sky as per the libretto.

Congratulating herself when she made it more than halfway through the aria without interruption, her elation deflated at his sharp reprimand to stop.

"Oh, what is it _now_?" she allowed her frustrations to escape in an irritated whine.

Crossing his arms, he stared down his masked nose at her from the step above. "I'm sorry, was there somewhere else you needed to be?"

"Not I," she mumbled beneath her breath.

"Pardon?"

"Not at all." Her smile came stilted. "However I cannot think what it is that you would have to complain about this time. My breathing and posture were correct, since my spine feels as if it might break in two its stretched so taut. The notes sounded pristine to me, pure and clear as a bell, and I smiled until my cheeks ached while I stood in my blocked circle - so what in God's name did I do wrong this time?"

"Precisely that. You stood."

"Pardon?"

"Per the libretto, you are to be walking."

She blinked. "Yes, led by Don Juan. Since he isn't here to hold my hand and lead me, do you wish me to hold my hand out and make believe an invisible actor is doing so?" She ended her words on a little scoffing laugh of disbelief, but he didn't look at all amused.

"Yes…" Something flickered in his steady eyes, noticeable even from that distance, something that put her instantly on her guard and made her heart give a sudden jolt. "But perhaps it is too much to expect you to portray your character as she is meant to be played, without someone opposite to guide you."

He spoke the words quiet and slow, though they seemed to resound madly within her mind as he matched his pace with his words, moving down the step and toward her. She took a measured step back, hardly aware she did, and stared up at him with wide, uncertain eyes.

He came to a stop within reaching distance and held out his hand.

"I…"

"Cease with the personal dramatics, Madame..." His tone did not increase, in fact grew softer. But the hard glint in his eyes gave away his displeasure at her betraying act of nervousness. "You must learn to captivate the audience not only with your voice, but also with your supposed affection for your lead. No matter the identity of the man to whom you will be paired, no matter if you possess a strong aversion to him for whatever reason, when on stage you must convince all watching that he is the mate of your soul…the one who breathes life to your heart and gives it the will to beat."

His dark, emotive words made her mouth go strangely dry, his voice like rich velvet, sensual and deep. Without a second thought she placed her hand in his, palm to palm.

Tingles of fire spread along her arm as he curled his thumb and two fingers about her wrist, his other fingers resting warmly against the underside of her forearm. She loosely wrapped her fingers against his hand, never breaking contact with his mesmerizing eyes, but could no longer remember the words to sing.

"Could you…where should I start?" she whispered.

"Where you left off."

Frantically Christine tried to remember when he interrupted her, not wishing to admit her mind had become a blank. She blinked a few times then closed her eyes in concentration. For once, the winds of good fortune sent a faint breeze her way as the lyrics materialized in her mind. She smiled in relief and began to sing as he began slowly to lead her from one side of the staircase to the next.

Familiar with the layout of his home the Phantom rarely watched his progress, walking backward and keeping his eyes fixated on her. His heart lapsed a beat to see the natural smile that so suddenly lifted her lips. This smile came freely, unfeigned, reminding him of bygone days together on the moors…

Christine felt a sense of lightheadedness, as if she walked on air, paying little attention to where he led. Transfixed by his compelling golden eyes…

He glanced over his shoulder and turned slightly to take the first stair. Mindlessly she followed his graceful ascent, her hand trembling in his as she realized he led her to his bedchamber. Upon hearing the waver enter her voice he did not command that she stop and begin anew, only ending their slow walk at the same time her song concluded.

They had stopped at the foot of the bed, but he did not release her hand. Did not move. Did not even speak for several fractured breaths.

Though it was scripted, she watched in awe as he lifted her hand to his lips, his fingertips tracing a path of sparks to her wrist as he brought her hand upward. She gasped at the sensation that made her go warm inside throughout all of her body, but before his mouth could make contact with her skin, something attacked the bottom of her skirts from behind.

Christine gave a muted shriek, snatching back her hand in the process and stepping sideways. Quickly she scanned the ground to see a dark blur of fur dart beyond the bed. She looked back at her teacher whose expression was grim.

"That was an improvement," he said gravely.

"The cat," she explained, hoping to forestall his ill temper. "I was frightened…that is, _it_ frightened me."

"Faust enjoys the game of stalking prey."

"Mozart knows I am hardly his prey."

The discussion was foolish, but it helped to ease the strange tension that had built between them ever since he'd taken her hand and led her spellbound, like an enchanted maiden being sensually coerced by the dark lord of the castle….

No, no longer a maiden and hardly an innocent in ways that counted, no matter that she had never lain with a man…though in what seemed another lifetime, she almost did on one stormy day…

Frissons of tiny shivers raced along her spine at where her mind had wandered and the thought of again rehearsing the song and all that went with it. Unconsciously she backed up a step, rubbing her arms.

"It's rather cold." She winced at the inanity of her statement. It was always cold in these dark caves. His eyes seemed to burn into her, scorching her to the bone, and she looked away.

Frowning, the Phantom observed his protégé, doubting the chill was the cause of her actions. He dearly wished to know what troubling thought now burrowed in her mind, certain it had to do with him.

"The weather has taken a turn. There is a brisk chill in the air that settles onto the lake from an opening above." He watched her take a few steps to the entrance, shifting her head and shoulders to try to see the rock ceiling of the main lake room, which had no such aperture. A grudging smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "In the other chamber. Your bath chamber window looks out onto that part of the water."

She turned her head so sharply to look at him, he imagined the pain that must burn along the side of her neck as she winced and grabbed it. Her entire face grew rosy with a flush.

"Are you alright?" He studied her curious behavior.

"Yes, I…" She fanned her face with one hand as if now too warm. "I turned too quickly."

"Would you like to sit for a moment and rest?"

Her eyes darted to the bed behind him then away again. "No, I-I'm fine. Really."

"Then we should proceed…"

"The same song?" Her eyes were huge, anxious pools of startled brown.

He withheld a weary sigh. "No. We will take up where Don Juan leaves Aminta to attend to affairs in town," he said brusquely. Clearly she did not desire his touch again. Nor did he wish to extend it. "Continue."

"Here?" She looked at her surroundings in mild alarm, as if she'd never once visited his bedchamber or had taken up residence in it for over a week.

"It hardly suffices as a garden, but it will do." He crossed his arms over his chest in impatience. "Come, come, Madame. I haven't all day." He pointed to a chair. "That will serve as the bench upon which Aminta sits when the young gypsy finds her and tattles about what she has seen."

Her brows lifted with a faint hint of amusement. "And will you play that role in this practice as well?"

"Of Don Juan in the arms of another woman?"

She frowned at him. "Of the girl who speaks the truth to Aminta."

"You feel the need for a prompt with that as well?" Intolerance lay heavy in his tone.

"No." She briskly shook her head, winced again and touched her neck, then sat heavily down in a loud rustle of skirts.

The emotion of joy had not been her strong suit earlier in the lesson, but she managed jealousy and offense well, allowing the inflection of pain and anger to waver mildly in her tone without damaging the overall presentation of the song.

All too soon the time arrived for his departure and he announced an end to the practice, which at least had progressed more smoothly than before.

Again in the main lake chamber, Christine looked at him uncertainly while toying with her bandage. He noticed red spotted it and frowned.

"You should change that. You'll find more linen in the kitchen."

"Yes, alright." She glanced down at her mummified finger then at him. "Would it be alright, since Jolene hasn't yet returned, if I…if I made dinner while you're away?"

The question surprised him. "You have to eat, of course. Try not to burn the place down in my absence."

She glared at him and a sudden thought occurred. He took several intimidating steps toward her. This time, she did not flinch.

"I want your word that you'll not attempt another escape. I will remind you of your last pathetic effort and its near tragic results. This time, I won't be here to see to your rescue."

"There's hardly a point anymore, is there?" she lashed out, her words as soft and terse as his own. "I married you, didn't I!"

The declaration came out as an accusation, the words themselves engendering a sudden intimacy that made her go warm all over a second time.

"What does one have to do with the other?"

"I kept my word, damn you! I made no attempt to escape then."

He narrowed his eyes. "Yes…However, should you change your mind and attempt to leave here - and by some stroke of luck escape all my traps - _should you ever_ **_go back_** _on your word_ - then be assured, Madame, **_I will no longer abide by mine_**_._"

Her angry frustration gave way to curious dread, though his tone made his intention clear. Still she could not refrain from seeking clarification.

"Meaning…?"

"I will kill the Vicomte. And any other interloper who gets in my way."

A film of tears rose to her eyes. "Why must you always be so bloody hateful?" Her words came out in little more than a whisper.

"I never feigned to be noble."

"But you give no mercy - none whatsoever."

"I gave into your plea to save that wretched boy!"

"Only at the price of my freedom."

His lips twisted in a snarl. "I have no time for this."

Before he could fully turn to go, she clutched her skirts, taking a step forward.

"Why did you marry me, monsieur?"

"We have visited this subject before. Nothing has changed."

She furrowed her brow, unsatisfied with his response. "But - what is it that you expect of me in the role of a wife." He stared so hard she had trouble breathing. "I-I mean, am I to launder your clothes, cook your meals…"

He waved an impatient hand. "Jolene takes care of that."

The reminder did nothing to alter her dour mood, instead darkening it further.

"Then you **_do_** eat. How remarkable. I had begun to wonder."

He glared at her. "I am no true phantom, as you have seen, Madame. Even a monster needs sustenance to survive." His smile was wicked. "Be thankful that I don't bite the heads off small children for breakfast or eat ill-tempered young divas for my main course."

"You are one to speak of an ill temper, monsieur!"

He lifted his brow in mockery. "Did I call you by name?"

_"I hate you,"_ she seethed under her breath.

"I expect nothing less."

He stepped closer. She stood her ground.

"Rest assured, _Madame_, nothing need change as far as our personal lives are concerned. You were a means to an end. I have achieved my purpose."

His words flowed like silk but she smarted from their sting. She lifted her chin and glared at him.

"What personal life have I in this tomb? To eat and sleep and sing?"

"Precisely."

"And you, monsieur? Will **_you_** go on as you have before?"

"What do you mean?"

At the curious hesitation in his voice, she realized what she had just so snidely said. Dear God, surely she would not have questioned him about his notorious liaisons with other women! She bit the unwelcome accusation from the tip of her tongue. She did not care who shared his bed or met with him in dark corridors!

"Nothing - I meant nothing."

His expression hardened again. "Be slow to speak if you do not know your own mind. And _never_ say to me what you do not mean. I prefer your sincere abhorrence to lies that flow so glibly from a forked tongue."

He hissed the last words, their echo reverberating in her mind as some of the last words Erik spoke to her, and in that same tone. She had said she hated him, too, and she was still paying for that mistake. Forever would she reap the consequences of false words rashly spoken to soothe her injured pride.

"What is the matter?" He looked at her suspiciously.

"Nothing."

Feeling suddenly weak, she brushed away with her fingertips the moisture that trickled beneath her lashes and stepped back, stumbling. His hand reached out and grabbed her arm. She righted herself and wrenched from his hold.

"_I bid you, leave me be!_"

At her strangled plea, he released her as if he could no longer bear her company.

"As you wish, Madame. You loathe the very sight of me. **_Everything_** is as it should be. **_Nothing_** need change. Nothing ever will change. Nor was it meant to…"

His last words came more hoarsely, when suddenly he pivoted on his heel and exited through his bedchamber.

Christine stared after him, a hopeful fluttering of curiosity trumping her inexplicable despair.

He had sounded as if he tried more to convince himself of his declaration rather than express what he thought her feelings were in the matter. Nor was it the first occasion he had done so, since the night she had come to his lair.

She had been unwilling to tell him that he couldn't be further from the truth, since every word she uttered he assumed to be a lie.

Why should he believe her when she could scarcely believe it herself?

.

**xXx**

.

The Phantom was so overwrought by his encounter with Christine that at first he failed to notice another presence inside the cavern, near the exit to the world above.

His objective had grown muddied these past weeks, the need to remind himself of his true purpose in bringing his tempestuous songbird to his underground domain a continual necessity. Yet there was no excuse for such a total lack of awareness that could one day lead to his capture and demise, and he silently cursed this tangled web of unwelcome emotions and the exasperating woman who caused them.

Thankfully, the interloper yet remained unaware of his presence...

With measured stealth he slipped up behind the cloaked and hooded figure, wrapping his arm tightly around their middle while clapping one gloved hand over their mouth. A woman, he instantly realized by the narrow waist beneath his sleeve and the strangled feminine gasp of surprise against his glove; slight in carriage, but too tall to be Jolene.

He held his captive against him, surprised when she did not struggle but remained perfectly still. Even if she were to scream, no one would hear from above, and with that knowledge he lowered his hand from her mouth, wrapping it around her throat. Not so strongly she couldn't breathe, but firmly enough to issue a warning.

"Why have you hunted me out and trespassed inside my caverns?" he said quietly near her ear. "Who told you how to find this place?"

He had no need to ask. In angry disgust, he already knew the answer. Only Jolene would have known to tell her of the hidden door covered by a tangled growth of shrubbery, in the opposite direction of the door to the Rue Scribe where he had taken Christine…only the foolish French slut would know of the key buried beneath a rock to enter the door, and the lever fifteen feet into the cave that one must pull to avoid a trap, for the trespasser to have come this far.

When she gave no reply, he continued, "I have killed men who so foolishly dare to cross the threshold and enter my domain. Yet you dare take the risk…why?"

Arabella willed her heart to stop pounding so fiercely. Having met Jolene by happenstance that morning, in the company of Giselle, Arabella had not waited for the dawn of another day. Jolene had been surprisingly helpful, eager to share what she knew of Christine's captivity, including directions to enter this underground cave. With Raoul absent, Arabella had seen no reason to detain her mission to seek out her dear friend.

Now, held tightly against the full length of her captor, she sensed his whipcord strength, his soft leather encased fingers that pressed casually against her skin no mild threat. His words were gently fierce, his voice sensual and seductive. Without even seeing him, he emanated a dangerous but captivating quality that left her feeling weak inside. After recent stories she'd heard, she entertained no doubt who held her imprisoned in his grasp.

"You are the one known as the Phantom of the Opera."

The Phantom knew surprise at the controlled calm of her statement, noted also that she spoke with no French accent.

"Oui, mademoiselle." When she offered no further reply, he insisted, "Having been apprised of that knowledge, you do not fear me?"

"If you meant to kill me, you would have done so already."

"Can you be so sure?"

She had spoken with conviction but was unable to withhold the tremor of uncertainty in her voice. The woman was no fool, did not believe her own words, but she had shown extreme bravado or utter recklessness to seek out his dwelling alone after hearing of his exploits, of which the Phantom was sure many above were quick to inform her. Which description fit his captive, he was uncertain. But he had no time to unveil such mysteries.

"Why have you come here?" he demanded again.

"To see Christine."

He narrowed his eyes in derision, the identity of his intruder now apparent. "And you are the Vicomte de Chagny's cousin, I presume?"

He sensed her shock at the manner in which her body tensed against his. "You know of me?"

"I know everything that goes on inside my opera house…"

"_Your_ opera house?"

"…And I will not tolerate your family's continued interference, here in my abode or above in my theater," he continued as if she had not spoken. "I have spent the past three years rectifying the damage the former managers caused with their pathetic excuses for portraying the arts. I will not have some young upstart with **no** proclivity for or understanding of the opera intrude and demolish all that I've created. Nor will I have that ignorant boy sneak through these caverns in order to rescue a damsel who is in no need of rescuing. You may tell your cousin that, in case his recent visit to my dwelling has so soon escaped his memory."

She was silent a long moment and he wondered if he had paralyzed her mind with fear. Good, and good riddance. Perhaps the Vicomte told her of his experience with the water trap...

"What of Christine? Is she then your prisoner? Did you abduct her from the dressing room as they say you did?"

She sounded unperturbed, even cross, and he felt a small degree of grudging admiration at her pluck. He had supposed her as weak as all the de Chagnys, having glimpsed this woman only once, the tragic night of the ball…the same night that forged the beginning of Christine separating herself from him.

He frowned. "Christine is well."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"She is not chained to the wall and is free to move about at will."

"But she is not free to leave this place?" He didn't answer, and she insisted, "I wish to speak with her."

"That is not possible."

"Why? _If_ she is free? Why did you take her to begin with? What has she ever done to you?"

At the harsh memory of those bitter days, the tide of anger swept through him and he was hard pressed to keep his identity secret. This cousin of the Vicomte's was partially responsible for turning Christine against him. Damn the intrusive noblewoman, she deserved to suffer too…

"Tell me what you've done with her! If you have harmed her in any manner -"

He tightened his hold around her throat. She gasped, both her hands clutching his arm but failing to pull it away.

"I think you are under the misapprehension that I am like other men, mademoiselle. While I most certainly **_am_** a beast, I have not harmed one hair on Christine's head, nor do I intend to. Continue to annoy me with your wretched insinuations and the same cannot be said for your own fate. Do I make myself clear?"

She gave a brisk nod.

"Excellent. This conversation is now concluded. When the time is right she will return above to join you. That is all you need to know."

At the muffled gasp his unwanted captive made and the feel of her fingertips digging into his sleeve in a frantic effort to pull his arm, her other hand clawing around his glove, he loosened his grip. He had no intention of killing her, had never directly killed any woman or child. But neither did he want her to ever entertain the idea of returning to his caverns once he let her go. The need to instill such fear was necessary to that purpose.

"You will return her?" She faintly rasped the words, sounding surprised.

"I have said it."

"But why take her to begin with- ?"

Her persistent question was cut off at the distant melody of Christine's angelic voice coming suddenly to them from a fissure high in the wall. His intruder turned her head swiftly in that direction.

"There you have your answer as to her well being." The Phantom noticed that his pupil practiced the aria from the third act, when Aminta confided in a peer of her plan to shyly confront Don Juan, in retribution for her injured vanity - to force him to fall for her charms and ultimately surrender his heart, so she could then scoff at him and break his.

"She's singing." Sheer disbelief mixed with wonder lay thick in the trespasser's tone. "She's actually singing…."

"Yes," the Phantom responded warily.

"But…why?"

_Why?_ Her question confused him. However, he had no time for a long discourse and no further patience to withstand her wearisome inquiry. "You will learn the answer soon enough. At present, you are interfering with my plans for the evening -"

Christine's song came to a rapid close mid stanza as she let out a bloodcurdling cry. The Phantom's heart froze in terror, partially thawing when he heard the almost instantaneous sound of her bubbling laughter.

"You dare sneak up behind me with a goblet of water, young lad?" Her words were a faint echo but clear enough to be understood. "Well then, let's see if you would like some of the same!"

More of her easy laughter followed, interspersed with gay little shrieks, and the Phantom winced, wondering if on his return he would need to clean up the spoils of another food battle.

"You have a child there, with Christine?" his irksome trespasser whispered in dumbfounded amazement.

The Phantom scowled at her rash words, when shrewd silence would have been a far wiser course.

The imprudent Lady de Chagny had discovered too much.

He had no choice but to act accordingly.

.

* * *

**xXx**

**A/N: Oops. Arabella seems to have found herself in a very bad situation. I wonder what the Phantom will do... (cue the Gothic music)**

**And yes, we are getting very close to one of those "long awaited moments" judging by reviews. Actually two of them. That's all I'm going to say...**

**0-:-)**


	41. Chapter 41

**A/N: A thousand pardons. I'm sure you guys don't want to read long excuses of icky flu, debilitating migraines, and consecutive work deadlines - so instead, I'll say thank you so VERY much for the many awesome reviews and your patience. We are reaching a precipice of this section before jumping to the next level of plot, where much is fixing to happen…please remember, this isn't a tame story- it is M/MA- for explicit sex and adult situations including lewd/depraved moments & shocking occurrences that work for who my characters are. That said, this chapter deserves the rating. (Forgive any inconsistencies. It has only been looked at by me.)**

**With that warning, at last I give you the long-awaited words:**

**And now on with the story… **

* * *

**Chapter XLI**

.

Arabella realized her mistake the moment the reckless words left her lips.

The tightening of his arm about her waist and his fingers clamping around her throat a second time, along with the elevated sound of his breathing made clear the Phantom's anger with regard to her foolish slip. Fear that she would never see another dawn was almost her undoing.

_Dear God, he truly did mean to kill her!_

Desperately seeking the calm rationale she had needed for unnerving moments while she stood, guilty, before the stern headmistress and feigned innocence, Arabella again grabbed his arm, trying to pull it downward, and sought to rectify her error.

"The lad," she rasped with what air remained in her windpipe, "doesn't - concern me. Only Christine! - _please - don't - do this…_"

The Phantom gritted his teeth, hesitating to push harder against her larynx and deal the killing blow, or perhaps only render her unconscious. There existed a fine line between both, but he knew the difference. Compassion did not move him. Only the knowledge prevailed that if the Lady de Chagny were to disappear, a search would be issued and his caverns invaded by those determined to find her, with the excuse for a Vicomte leading the throng. Twice in the span of two days the same number of interlopers had found their way into his hidden lair. For his safety and those he protected, he could not take that risk. Nor could he lock her in a chamber of a distant corridor, away from Christine, for the same reason.

"No, mademoiselle, I will not kill you," he spoke quietly into her ear. "…this time."

Disgusted with his options, he lowered his hand from her throat but kept his arm like a band of iron around her, keeping her held tightly against him. She coughed, gasping for breath, and grabbed her neck, rubbing it.

"What do you mean to do with me?" she hoarsely whispered. "I've heard accounts of how you seduce young, innocent women at the Opera…do you mean to ravage me? _Tell me you have not done so to Christine!_"

Despite his mounting ire he laughed wryly in disbelief. Good God. Two hapless indiscretions, both consensual with dancers who could hardly be described as "innocent", and his reputation was now that of a plundering scoundrel haunting dark corridors to molest young virgins. His notoriety surely would soon surpass Don Juan's. He was surprised the young Miss Giry had not yet pealed the bells of Notre Dame and announced her warped versions of his past liaisons from the highest belfry for all of Paris to know.

"For one who fears such atrocities be forced upon her person, you have an uncanny proclivity to speak your mind without regard to the consequences," he advised his captive bitterly.

He felt the rise and fall of her breasts as she took in a deep breath. "Will you let me go, sir?" she asked more calmly.

"So that you can run to your intrusive cousin and relay all of what you have discovered here tonight?" He knew he had no choice but sought to know her intent. "Perhaps I should lock you away in one of my darkest dungeons, with only the rats for company…"

He felt her shiver beneath him.

"I told you, I have no interest in the boy. I assume he's yours?" He did not answer and she quickly went on, "from what I just heard his life isn't in peril. I only came here to learn that Christine is alright."

He narrowed his eyes, loath to believe her. "You had no intention of helping her escape?"

Her silence gave her away.

"Did she sound as if she was being held against her will and seeking flight from my caves?" he persuaded in impatience.

As if she'd heard his question, again Christine began to sing the light aria, and again the woman he held swung her head toward the fissure in the rock wall. Christine stopped mid verse, then returned to the beginning, as he had taught her when she made a mistake.

"I have no idea what or who to believe any longer," the Lady de Chagny whispered in puzzlement, "but I think I understand something not clear to me before. _She_ is to be your star, isn't she? I was told of the note you delivered at practice and that you had a new diva lined up for your opera."

The irksome woman may be swift to speak but she was shrewd. He saw no reason to hide the truth since all would soon know of his plans.

"Yes."

"And she _agreed?_ To sing - but not only that, to sing _in_ _public_?"

This was her second reference to Christine's lack of desire to sing and he remembered her refusal to do so at her audition. Had she truly lost all confidence in her ability due to the few years of disuse to her voice? She had been out of form, it was true, and never had been taught the rudiments of training necessary for the opera. But her innate talent had only dulled, not disappeared, and these weeks under his tutelage had sharpened them to the crystalline clarity of which he knew her capable.

"But of course," the talkative woman answered herself, "she is using her mother's maiden name…"

Surprised she would arrive to that conclusion, when he had not yet given Christine his permission to do so, he phrased his question carefully. "Is that so important?"

She hesitated. "To Christine it is."

He had the feeling she withheld more, but since he assumed it was in some way related to her loathsome cousin he had no desire to know.

"The situation most prevalent in my mind is what should be done with you," he pondered aloud, a threat again lacing his voice.

"If it means anything, I have obtained what I wished to know. I came seeking assurance as to Christine's welfare. I have it. I don't pretend to understand why you sought her out to make her your lead of the new opera, but I am convinced that this is the best place for her at this time."

Her startling admission contradicted what he presumed she would say, and he wondered if she lied to escape his clutches. "If you tell anyone what you have learned, including that meddlesome cousin of yours, I will find you and will not be so merciful to let you go free a second time."

She drew in a swift breath. "I understand."

"Do you?" The Phantom scoffed a laugh then grew stern, squeezing his arm tightly around her torso in warning until she gave a little whimper. "Let us hope you do, Miss de Chagny. No one will destroy what I have waited years to create. _No one…_Should you try to find your way back, the passage will be blocked, perhaps with a more sinister trap in place, of which _your_ _foolish_ _guide_ is unaware. You may tell her I said so."

Instantly, he released her.

Arabella gasped at being freed so swiftly, staggered a step, then spun around to face him.

The Phantom, true to his namesake, had silently disappeared into the darkest shadows.

"Go back the way you came - AT ONCE - lest I change my mind on what is to be done with you..."

His threatening words echoed all around, impossible to tell from whence they came as he seemed to be everywhere at the same time.

Grateful to escape with her very life, Arabella clutched her skirts and practically ran through the passageway of the cold cavern. She retraced her steps to the concealed, shrub-covered entrance, desperate for the sane and welcome sight of lights and civilization.

Raoul had been right in one respect.

The Phantom was most certainly a madman. But she sensed he was also much more that Arabella didn't understand, which confused her and caused her to hasten her pace, not back to the hotel, but to the Opera House...

where she was determined to find answers.

.

**xXx**

.

After changing into a dry dress, her second time to do so that day, and sopping up the last of the water from the boy's sneak attack, Christine then focused on replacing her soiled bandage. Once she tore another strip from the cloth the Phantom had used that morning and managed to get the wet linen off her finger, she realized her difficulty.

The cut looked no worse, for which she was grateful, but she needed three hands to mummify her finger as he had done. Even her two hands seemed deficient.

"Drat." At her third attempt, the ribbon of cloth evading her grasp and bagging too loose to form a proper bandage, she was ready to give up when the boy came to stand before her.

Warily she eyed his hands, noting with relief they were empty of goblets or food, and looked at his face. He seemed almost penitent as he held out his hands, palms up.

"What do you want, Jacques?"

To her surprise, he grabbed the ends of the ties and wound them around her wounded finger, tying them off in a clumsy knot. Afterward, he looked up at her, hopeful.

"If you think this absolves you of dousing me with water, think again young lad."

She doubted he had been able to follow her swift words but he must have sensed the ease of her tension by the relieved smile he gave.

She ruffled his hair. "Are you hungry?"

He nodded eagerly.

"Alright. Let's see what there is."

Christine scanned the kitchen area. She had exhausted the loaf of bread when making toast and had used all the eggs. Save for the lemons in the bowl, she saw nothing edible.

She approached the boy. "Do you know where the food is kept?"

He stared blankly at her.

"Food?" She put her hand to her mouth as if holding a fork, as she'd seen Jolene do, then spread her hands in a shrug.

The boy's eyes lit up. He ran to the edge of the water, looking back at her to join him.

"No, Jacques, not water..." Her words trailed off as he excitedly pointed to a lever near the wall. A chain rose above the lake attached to a pulley above. All of which she had noticed before, but the Phantom's lair was filled with so many oddities and curiosities, she'd never given the chain a second thought.

Curious, she pushed the lever forward. The chain began mechanically to wind onto what looked like a giant spool overhead and soon brought up a trunk from beneath the lake. In wonder, she stared at the huge container a few feet away, rivulets of water dripping from its bottom.

Now what?

Jacques grabbed a wooden pole with an iron hook at the end and gave it to her. He pointed to the pole, then to the trunk. A metal rung was suspended from the front and she realized what to do. Reaching out with the pole, she hooked the rung on the second try and pulled the trunk toward the bank, the chain giving exactly that much leeway. Yet now another problem arose. If she let go of the pole, the trunk would drift. She could not open the lid and hold the pole at the same time. A tap on her shoulder had her turn her head to look. She watched Jacques point to a rock on the bank with a hook embedded in it then he pointed to the end of her pole. It formed a loop and once attached to the second hook, the trunk stayed in place.

Genius.

A curious glance over the bank into the green water explained why the Phantom hadn't positioned the trunk closer, the dark rocks uneven beneath and sloping outward, reminiscent of the wild rocks of her moors.

Jacques pressed an iron key into her hand.

"What's this?"

He pointed to the trunk.

Christine fitted the key into the lock and turned it, which led to the sound of tumblers clicking and rods moving out of place. She lifted the heavy lid and gasped to see the dry interior filled with whatever food she desired. There were cheeses, fruits and vegetables, a platter with what looked like the remnants of a cooked bird, jars of jams, sauces, and some items she had no concept of, perhaps only native to France.

Jacques pointed to the half eaten bird, and she grinned.

"That's what you want? Very well then." She took the platter out, along with one of the slabs of cheese and an orange.

Going through the steps in reverse, she soon had the trunk back beneath the water and began to understand that Jolene must have removed all items intended for the full day's menu each morning, so as not to deal with the meticulous task for each meal. She held up the iron key and Jacques took it, looping it over the hook, then covered it with a loose brick of rock so that the hook was hidden and not a danger to unsuspecting bare ankles or expensive clothing.

They enjoyed their light repast, thankfully lacking in a food fight, and she discovered a new pleasure - she preferred orange slices cold. Once she popped the last section into her mouth, delighting in the burst of icy flavored juice as she bit down, she turned her attention to washing the dishes, favoring her bandage and trying to keep it as dry as possible. With that task finally concluded, she wondered what to do about Jacques.

When Christine was a child, Berta had her in bed by seven, but she had no way to tell time in this underground cavern. In the Phantom's absence, was she expected to see to the boy's bedtime? As his wife, she supposed it was her duty…

The reminder of their legal union sent a warm rush of blood through her being that conversely made her shiver. And she wondered if she would ever grow accustomed to the knowledge that she belonged in name, if not body, to the Phantom of the Opera.

Watching Jacques halfheartedly play with two of his soldiers, she noticed him yawn and took that as her cue.

She approached and held out her hand. "Come along then. Bed time."

He shook his head furiously.

She nodded sternly.

He set the soldiers down and crossed his arms with a pout, identical to the Phantom's, and avoided her gaze. As if by doing so she would simply vanish.

Stubborn to a fault, just like his father. Well, she could be stubborn also.

She plucked up his soldiers and headed for the bedchamber. As she suspected, Christine soon heard the sound of his shoes striking stone, hurrying to catch up with her. In his bedchamber, she laid the soldiers on a table and turned to face him. He didn't look happy but didn't protest when she picked up his nightshirt and held it out. He took it then made the motion of drinking.

"Water?"

He nodded.

"Alright. Be a good lad. Get dressed for bed."

She hurried to the main chamber to retrieve the drinking water from a pitcher there and returned to the boy's bedroom - finding it empty. With a scowl, she remembered the many childhood tricks she played on Berta, often commandeered by Erik, neither of them wishing to go to bed at the allotted hour. For the first time, Christine felt empathy for the old woman. At least the boy couldn't leave these caves, as she and Erik had sometimes escaped to the moors or fled to the stables to hide.

"Where are you, little imp?" she breathed, setting the cup down.

A glance into the bath chamber showed it empty, and she took the shortcut to the lake, thankful when she didn't see a glimpse of his white nightshirt in the dark interior. A chase around the large body of water didn't appeal after having just eaten. Taking the long route, she looked into two empty chambers then glanced into Jolene's room, stopped and looked again.

Her little fugitive sat in his nightshirt at the head of the bed, looking with confusion at the blanket that should be covering his sister. He looked up, curiosity bright in his eyes, a trace of pain making them glisten. The unasked question tore at Christine's heart, and she sat down beside him, drawing him close to her side in a hug.

"It's alright," she soothed after a time, pulling away and cupping his chin while bringing her face down to his so he could read her lips. The torch's flame from the corridor made it bright enough to see. "I'm sure that she'll be back soon."

He made motions with his hands, but she had no understanding of them and shook her head. "I don't know what you're saying."

He sighed in dejection and slid off the bed, leaving the room. She followed, relieved to see him walk into his chamber. He drank some of the water then rubbed his teeth with a cloth there and crawled into bed. First Papa or Berta, in later years Erik would either tell her a tale or read her a story, but that wouldn't work for Jacques. Nor did she see any books lying about. And she didn't see how she could relate an entire tale with him reading her lips. Papa or Berta would then sit with her while she said her nighttime prayers, but that seemed out of the question as well. Not knowing what else to do, she tucked him in and moved to go.

He made a protesting sound in his throat and she turned back to see him sadly looking up at her, a plea she could not refuse. Bending down she gave him another hug and a kiss and smoothed his dark hair from his brow. Again she tried to go, but he grabbed her hand.

"What, Jacques?" she asked in mild frustration.

He closed his eyes as if going to sleep, but did not let go of her hand.

"You want me to stay," she whispered, hurting for the little boy who had lost so much. And now apparently his sister had left him too. "Only 'til you fall asleep then."

She wondered if the Phantom would ever tell the boy of the special bond they shared. It might help him to know…

Sitting on the edge of his bed she watched his dark lashes flicker and grow still. She waited until his breathing slowed to a steady rhythm and his hold on her hand lessened.

Only then did she exit the room, once more looking back in the doorway.

He did not stir.

She wished she could do more but felt helpless. She certainly couldn't search for his sister and wondered what had gotten in the girl's head to take off as she did.

Having the person one cared about most in the world leave without saying goodbye was a terrible experience to endure.

Having a person who had become a part of one's life leave without explanation could also be troubling to the soul…even if he was coming back.

Wearily she retraced her steps back to the main chamber. Casting a listless glance toward the organ, empty of its master, she decided to retire early. Her body must still be finding strength from its debilitation of weeks ago. It was the only explanation that made sense, as melancholy as she felt.

Once in her chamber, she couldn't sleep. She worked on memorizing lines from the libretto then gave up the pursuit as futile, her mind in constant turmoil as to where the Phantom had gone and why it was so damnably important he be there. Did it have something to do with Jolene? Had he gone in search of the girl?

Resigned that a hot bath might help her sleep, Christine shed her nightdress and pulled on her wrapper.

A short time later, lulled by the heated water, she felt the tension ease from her body. Only minutes had elapsed since she entered the bathtub, but she knew she needed to leave - or risk making the long porcelain vat her bed and the silky water her coverlet. And she did not anticipate waking up with wet hair, what had happened once before.

Grudgingly she stepped out and wrapped a piece of toweling around herself. Pulling the pins from her long curls, so that they fell over her shoulders and to her waist, she padded in the direction of her room, half asleep, ready to fall into bed.

A distant giggle made her groan.

"Oh, Jacques, no..."

Dreading what she might see, she stepped onto the table and the box and looked out her natural window, over the lake.

Instead of the boy dashing about in his nightshirt, the sight that met her eyes brought her wide awake and sent a chill to the marrow of her soul.

A man and woman stood at the far wall, faintly illumined by torchlight but too dim to see well. But she could see enough, and the towering shadows they cast on the wall behind acted as a relentless mirror to their actions. The man stood tall with dark hair and had his back to Christine. He clutched the woman's waist, his face at her neck. The woman was buxom but otherwise petite. Even in the faint light and at such a distance, Christine recognized Jolene. And the man could only be…

"It's too dangerous," Jolene's words came sketchy and low, but their message carried over the still water.

The man's hand went to her bodice and she giggled. "I see that you missed me, but at least wait 'til we get to your bed where it's safe."

The man's answer came indistinguishable, deep, his head dipping lower as he pulled the sleeves from her shoulders, baring skin. Her faint moans also carried over the water, each one a stab to Christine's bleeding heart, but she stared, transfixed, a prisoner to the horror being played out before her.

"We can't. Not here…" Jolene's breathless entreaty ended in a groan, and the man lifted his mouth from her bosom, pulling up her skirt. "Have you gone mad?" she said, a nervous ring in her voice.

"_Yes,_" he growled, his voice low and faint. "_Mad…for you._"

"But anyone can come at any time!"

"_You_ can _cum_ at any time too…" He laughed wickedly and pulled up her leg around him, shoving his hips hard against her again and then again.

Jolene gave a little cry, grabbing him tight. "Oh, God - _yesss!…it feels so good…it's been too long…" _She let out an extended moan.

Christine violently pulled away from the image of their writhing bodies and the terrible accompaniment of tall undulating shadows. She barely could step down from the box and table she shook so badly. Her vision obscured, she brushed away inexplicable tears.

She had suspected their close arrangement almost from the beginning, it came as no surprise. So why did seeing the proof of it hurt so fiercely?

Their eager moans mingled. She ran to her bed to escape them. Throwing off the damp toweling, she dove naked under the coverlet, not taking the time to don her nightdress. Still, she could hear their voices, faintly now, and for the first time she was thankful Jacques could not hear, so he would not to be awakened by the disgusting duet and go in search of the nightmare.

Christine brought the pillow over her head to drown out sound, but each time she removed it, thinking surely the torture must be over, their distant moans went on…and her silent tears ran unbroken. A sharp ecstatic cry, and it was at last over.

Christine stared straight ahead at the flickering patterns the torch made on the wall, her pillow soaked, her heart as heavy as stone. How long she stared - why she even cried or felt so beastly, she had no idea! - but at last, the emotion draining, she fell into troubled slumber.

Music woke her. It was in hearing those first dark chords that her heart flared back to life, and she sat up in bed, a determined Persephone, feverish to confront her contemptible lord and master.

She pulled on nightdress, robe, and slippers in haste, leaving her hair as it was, and marched to Hades' throne room with grim purpose.

.

xXx

.

The Phantom sat at his pipe organ, unable to concentrate on the notes to a potential new opus. Disgusted with his poor attempts, he threw the pen skittering atop the glossy black surface, just curbing himself from knocking away the bottle of ink as well. A step on the stones alerted him, and he turned at the waist, not surprised to see his visitor, at the same time curious about the hour she'd chosen to approach him.

Her dark hair rained down around her sides in a riotous adornment of tight, unbrushed curls, and he wondered if she had just left her bed. Her cheeks were highly flushed, her eyes overly bright and puffy, and he realized with a start she'd been crying.

"Madame…" He forced a surge of emotion down, both concerned and desirous. To keep his detached distance from the exquisite creature that Christine had become grew more difficult with each passing day. "Is there a problem?"

"I'm fine," she said in a bare facsimile of polite detachment. "Perfect. I only wished to say - that is -" She balled her hands to fists at her sides. "I thought to come early, to practice."

"I see." He shifted the rest of his weight around to face her entirely. Her last words had come jumbled and swift, as if they just occurred. Nor had she ever appeared for practice without being fully dressed. "You do realize it is not yet midnight."

"What?" She blinked, her surprise evident, and she shook her head, flustered. "How am I to know such things? I have no timepiece to track the hours."

"The window of your bath chamber looks out onto the lake and is an adequate measure of daylight and darkness."

"Yes, I have found it to be a window to many things," she snapped.

"Is it?" he said, lacking interest. If he was not so shocked by her queer behavior, he might have allowed his previous irritation to dominate the moment. As it stood, he had no desire to dwell on either. "Very well, if you wish to practice…"

"Tell me, monsieur, how did your appointment go?"

He pressed his lips together. His contact had not shown, though he had waited for hours in concealment.

"I have no wish to speak of such matters with you."

"No?" Her tone wavered at the courteous edge of accusation. "I take it then things did not go well? How unfortunate."

"Yes," he gritted. "Take your place -"

"But upon your return did not fortune favor you with a more _productive_ evening?" He watched in curious shock as her entire face bloomed red. "Surely it could not be construed as a total waste? _Especially now that you have your little slave girl back!_"

"What the bloody hell are you talking about?" Impatient with her games, he rose from his bench and approached, noting her back up a slight step but no more.

This close, Christine could smell a hint of lavender on his clothing, a scent not unlike what Arabella wore - feminine, but nothing she had noticed on Jolene. Maybe there had been more than one "_appointment_" kept tonight.

"Don't bother denying it. I'm no fool, though you may play me for one," she hissed before she lost courage. "I'm talking about the disgusting performance that went on outside my bath chamber this evening."

"You don't like my new music?" he sneered.

She jabbed her finger into his chest, lifting her chin to see into his eyes beyond the mask. "This has nothing to do with your bloody music - _**and you damn well know it!**_"

He shook his head. "Have you gone mad?"

His mirror to Jolene's words earlier spoken had her let out a slight hysterical laugh. "You are a vile beast to say _**those words**_ to me…"

The Phantom was so stunned by her indignant behavior he could only stare, his mouth parted in confusion.

This was the Christine he knew from the Heights, wild and passionate, afraid of no one, but with a more mature assurance - and if he knew what the hell this discussion was about, he might fully be able to appreciate the change.

"No matter that our marriage is in name only - " She jabbed him again with her finger. "No matter that your reputation is as lurid and soiled as that despicable character in your opera" - Another hard jab. "You could at least show me the common courtesy _**not to rut with your whores outside my bath chamber!**_"

Her profusion of garbled venom suddenly sharpened in his mind, beginning to make sense, and he grabbed her below her shoulders.

"What did you see?" he demanded.

"You know what I saw," she hissed. "LET ME GO!"

He shook her fiercely. "TELL ME WHAT YOU SAW, DAMN YOU!"

She struggled to get loose, hitting his chest with her fist. His hand went to her spine, bringing her up hard against him while trapping her arm. His other hand clutched her hair at the nape, pulling her head back to look into her face.

"_**TELL ME!"**_

Eyes like molten lava threatened to sear her flesh, the waves of warmth she experienced to be crushed against his hard body dizzying.

"You and Jolene - together- by the lake," she whispered disjointedly, even as her own eyes filled with unwanted hot moisture to recount the awful words.

Enraged by the disclosure, he released her with a push and turned on his heel. She staggered and just prevented herself from falling.

_**"BY GOD, THE SLUT WILL PAY FOR THIS!"**_ The Phantom knocked a tall candlestick out of his path as he stormed toward his bedchamber. **"SHE WILL PAY!"**

At his deep bellow that resounded throughout the huge cavern and the murderous rage that had leapt to his fiery eyes, Christine stared after him in mounting horror.

The blood drained from her face at the sudden awareness that she had made a dreadful mistake.

.

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: Uh oh….methinks all hell is about to break loose… 0-:-)**

**'Til next time, my phriends…**


	42. Chapter 42

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews. Love them! :) Okay - I'm just gonna say it- some of you will hate this chapter for its glimpse into the past. I actually deleted portions twice, and each time found myself writing them back in. (But had to work up the courage to post it! lol)- Meg briefly alluded to it early on, and I dropped hints along the way- now it's time to see a bit more of that long ago night from Erik's POV…Also, I know some of you want Erik & Christine to throw themselves at each other in passion now! lol But keep in mind the girl was brutally attacked and nearly raped several weeks ago, killing her cousin in the very instant before he could despoil her, and she had to run for her life, endure the terror of being kidnapped by a "madman", etc. I am slowly and realistically (trying) to get her to the point where she needs to be for what I want to happen. She has finally accepted her life with the Phantom, inexplicably drawn to him. But both E & C are in their own form of denial because of all that's happened to them individually and because of each other. Very soon ice _will_ start to thaw…patience, friends. If it will reassure, I've written certain scenes ahead of time (months ago) as a lure to work my way toward those points, am getting extremely close to one that everyone awaits … but once it's posted, it still won't be the end, this story has much further to go. One resolution will twist into a new phase of story, with its own shockers, desire and angst. You'll see. Have I failed you yet? Oh- and this chapter deserves the rating. And now…**

* * *

**Chapter XLII**

**.  
**

The Phantom stormed through the corridor, deadest on his course to exact truth and wreak vengeance.

Christine raced after him, uncertain how but determined to rectify what she had so terribly misunderstood.

What insanity had prompted her to berate him for lewd acts clearly not his own, even if on the outset she thought him to blame? What madness - to beard the wildcat in his den with her invective of misbegotten truths? Impulse had always been her snare, and now it could well exact the punishment of another.

She came abreast of the boy's room and darted a glance inside, grateful to see that Jacques slept with his back to the entrance. The Phantom's dark wrath could not wake him, and she prayed nothing else would either. She had never seen the terrible ruler of these caverns in such a frenzy. Even during those times when he caught her trying to escape he possessed a cold containment to his biting rage. This complete loss of control frightened her.

She approached Jolene's room just as the Phantom grabbed the girl's arm below the shoulder and hauled her out of bed, throwing her roughly to the ground. Jolene gave a terrified cry as she went down, catching her fall and scraping rock with her hands. In the strong torchlight coming from the entrance, every freckle on her skin stood out against her shift as she twisted her body around on hands and knees and stared up at her master in fearful confusion. Her dark auburn curls rippled around her to the ground. In her current position, her neckline gaped indecently, revealing lavish curves to his view. The loose shift hid nothing, but the Phantom seemed oblivious to her womanly traits and Jolene made no attempt to hide them.

He pointed at the girl. "_**What have you done?**_"

"I- I - don't know what - you mean!" Jolene could barely get a word out for her sketchy, frightened gasps.

"_**Don't lie to me, wench!**_ _**You brought that prying boy from the hotel here, didn't you?**_"

Jolene sobbed and Christine stepped further into the room, clutching the rock behind her. She watched, feeling oddly distanced from the situation, as the Phantom reached down and grabbed the errant girl by both arms. Hauling her up off the stones, he brought her close and shook her hard.

"DAMN YOU- ANSWER ME! DIDN'T YOU?"

"No!" she cried. "Not Peter. A-a man. From the tavern."

"YOU BROUGHT ONE OF YOUR CUSTOMERS **HERE**?" Disbelief warred with rage on his features as he gave her another violent shake.

"No-not a customer - I don't do that since I came here! A friend. W-we had nowhere else to go! He-he doesn't live in Paris. I knew you'd b-be gone."

"HOW did you know? DID YOU WRITE THE NOTE?"

His accusation boomed off the walls and she shrunk back in terror.

"No, monsieur! I only delivered it. _I swear _it came from him!"

He inhaled a harsh breath through bared teeth. _"Do you not realize what your folly has done? That your lust for the flesh has put us all in danger?"_

"But it hasn't! I was careful - I made sure to blindfold him. He was drunk!"

"_**Fool little strumpet! You think he won't TALK?**__"_

"He won't remember! I-I gave him one of your potions. He only saw the caves, no-nothing else- he doesn't know anyone lives in them! I was careful- " she cried again.

He gritted his teeth and spat his words in her face. _**"You were NEVER to bring anyone to these caverns, NEVER to speak of this place! You knew this, from the time I brought you here!"**_

_"I-I'm sorry, Maestro…"_ Her sobs came fierce. "_I- wou-would never do anything to bring ha-harm - to- to any of us!_"

He glared at her in disdain.

"You have defied me for the first and last time - by your actions you have broken the most vital command of living in my quarters - _**twice in one day**__._" His words came more quietly but just as sharp and lethal. "Are you so dull of wit? Did you think I would not learn that you told the Vicomte's meddling cousin how to find these caves?"

Her eyes grew even wider in her stark face.

Christine's heart missed a beat.

"And now you have invited an interloper into my sanctuary. Damn you, you ungrateful wretch! _**You have brought your fate upon yourself.**__"_

Releasing one of her arms, he kept a tight grip on the other, forcing her to walk with him as they hurriedly exited the room. He grabbed a torch from the wall in passing but did not once glance at Christine, whose mind was rolling with what she heard.

_Arabella _had come in search of her? _The Phantom_ had found her? Had _she_ been his appointment? _But_ _why?_

She filed the startling information away for later and hurried after them, at the moment more concerned for the fate of the wayward girl.

They had reached the interior lake room, with its window fronting her bath chamber. Jolene hurried to keep up as he dragged her mercilessly along beside him, his stride swift and determined.

"Where are you taking her?" Christine anxiously called after him, her words echoing off the rocks.

**"_To the streets where she belongs!"_**

Jolene suddenly turned to him, dropping on her knees and holding his leg tightly against her bosom while she wept against his trousers.

"Please, I beg of you, Maestro - don't send me away! Jacques cannot live on the streets. There are many who would harm him."

"I said nothing about Jacques." His words were cold and cruel. "His home is here, with me. But _you_ are never to come back, and I will lay a trap to ensure it if you think to try."

She grabbed him more tightly. "Please - don't do this. Beat me instead! I will gladly take your punishment. I will do anything for you that you ask - _anything,_ _monsieur _- but do not send me away from here and from my brother!"

"_I have decided_," he seethed, looking down at her. "_Get up_. _Unless you wish for me to drag you across the rocks _…"

Ignoring her apprehension to confront him, Christine moved in his direction. "You can't boot the girl out in the middle of the night - and especially with her wearing nothing but her undergarments!"

She glanced down at the young maid, stunned to realize that the shift had slipped from Jolene's shoulders and no longer covered her breasts, which she held pressed to the Phantom's leg that she still clung to so tightly. Christine battled a sharp urge to grab Jolene away from him and cover the shameless girl.

"She cannot remain here," he hissed between clenched teeth. "She has not done as I have commanded. _**She knew**__ the consequences of her acts!"_

Christine again looked down, this time into Jolene's watery eyes. In them she read desperation and fear, and her heart marginally softened toward the girl.

She stepped around the beseeching maid to face the Phantom more fully. He scowled at her, as though discerning her intent.

"What will you tell Jacques when he asks about his sister?" she insisted.

"He will learn soon enough that all women are fickle. They leave. He will get over it."

His terse revelation made her wonder who had left him, but she pressed on, knowing it was too much to ask for absolute mercy from the formidable Ghost who haunted an Opera and reigned over these gloomy tunnels of death.

"If you feel she must be punished, surely there must be somewhere you can put her while you decide what's to be done. If you throw her out onto the streets like this - and at this time of evening - you will be sending a lamb to wolves. To slaughter. Surely that isn't what you want? _To_ _destroy_ her?"

Jolene pulled her head softly away from the outside of his leg and to Christine's uneasy shock and bitter embarrassment, leaned her temple against his inner thigh, turning her face toward it, her nose nuzzling against his trousers.

Did the brazen girl suffer from such fearful distress to be thrown out into the cold night that it completely addled her mind? Did she even _know_ what she was doing?

"Please, monsieur," she whispered, her voice husky from crying as she turned bright blue eyes upward, tilting her face to see him, her lips briefly brushing the bottom of his trouser fastenings with the action. "Bar me in a cell, give me no food, but do not send me away from you."

He looked down at her a long moment, his stance formidable, his golden eyes giving nothing away beyond the black mask.

"What entrance did you take him through?" When at last he spoke, his words came brusque.

"The same as I told the lady."

"Get up," he ordered, watching as she separated herself from his leg, "_And for God's sake cover yourself!_"

The young woman's limbs shook as she rose to her feet - only then pulling straps back over her shoulders, though this close, torchlight made linen transparent, doing little to hide curves and shadows. Christine grimaced with a second twinge of furious disgust.

"Come." He roughly grabbed Jolene's arm and headed with her in the opposite direction.

Suppressing irritation at the maid's lewd behavior, Christine quickly followed. They entered his bedchamber, walked past that into the main chamber, where they exited to the corridor leading to her room, and went past even that. The Phantom swiftly led the way to a lit corridor Christine had never been down before though she had passed it during one of her futile escapes. It held a chamber at the far end with odd and sundry pieces of furniture and props filling the small space. In the corner stood a cot, its mattress bare. He released the breathless girl toward it with a shove while Christine watched from the entrance.

Instantly Jolene turned to face him.

"Merci, monsieur," she rasped, looking as if she might fall to her knees and kiss his hand.

He grimly regarded her. "You will stay here until I decide what's to be done with you," he ordered, lighting a torch on the wall. "Do not suppose that I have altered my original decision. Perhaps I have only delayed it."

"Will you send me back to my uncle then?" she asked barely above a whisper, her eyes downcast.

He inhaled as though struck and turned away.

"You should have thought of that before you so foolishly acted on impulse," he admonished darkly, then strode from the chamber, closing the door and barring it.

"She should have bedding," Christine said over the tense silence that followed. "She isn't dressed properly, and you wouldn't wish her to grow ill from the endless cold."

Shadows from the walls seemed to linger in his eyes. "You seem to think you know a great deal about what I would and would not wish for. When in truth, _you know nothing about me._"

The fluid intonation of his harsh words most certainly held deeper meaning, but she didn't attempt to solve his latest motive for irritation or let him deter her.

"Very well - then _I_ would prefer it. I'm not skilled at nursing, which if the girl becomes unwell, it will fall upon me to do should _you_ refuse to aid her."

He narrowed his eyes, his manner pensive, causing her exhalation to falter, but he only motioned with one careless wave of his hand down the corridor. "Go then, if it will ease your fear of _sickbeds_. I'll not prevent you."

She gave no response to his sardonic words, returning quickly to Jolene's chamber. A glance into the boy's room assured that he still slept and she thanked divine providence that they had not also needed to deal with Jacques appearing into the midst of all the drama. It was mostly for the boy that she'd spoken for Jolene, after recalling his sorrow of missing his sister. Winded once she arrived to her destination, she rested, looking around the room at the girl's pretty trifles, no doubt all gifts from the Phantom. Not for the first time, and with Jolene's recent exhibition to fuel rabid thought, Christine wondered exactly what kind of agreement bound their relationship. Just as grimly she told herself she didn't give two flying figs, lurched to her feet and snatched up what she'd come for, hastening back to the corridor.

He stood in the same spot, watching her approach. His brow lifted at the sight of the pillow.

"You would think this is a hotel instead of a punishment," he said, his manner grave but calm, his mercurial temperament having shifted orbits once again. "Will you also request of me that her every beck and call be granted for attempting to put our lives in peril with her treachery? Perhaps we should put a bell in there with her, so she may ring for service?"

"Will you _please_ just open the door?" she gritted, panting for breath and ready to toss the pillow at his wryly tilted head.

He bowed in suave mockery and unbarred the door, pushing it open. Jolene stared at them from where she sat curled up at the head of the cot but said nothing as Christine set the bedding down.

"We will speak later," he warned the young woman.

She quietly nodded, her eyes huge.

Once outside the chamber, the Phantom barred the door, then grabbed Christine's arm above the elbow as if he did not trust her to follow. Knowing anything she said was useless, that he would not trust her, she gave no struggle.

"You said that Jolene _attempted_ to put our lives in peril." She hurried her steps to match his long stride. "Does that mean there's no longer a risk of being found?" He glanced at her curiously, and she blurted, "for the boy's sake of course."

A partial truth. She feared that if they should be discovered, worse, if the French gendarmes should become involved, they would investigate and learn her identity and that Christine Daae was a fugitive wanted for murder in England.

"I took care of the matter upon my return. No intruder will come through that entrance a third time."

She shivered with relief and studied him in apprehension. "Another trap?"

His smile was wicked, and she decided she would rather not know.

"What of Arabella de Chagny? I heard what you said earlier. She was your appointment?"

He neither denied nor admitted it.

"Where is she now?" Christine insisted.

"If she is wise, she has returned to her hotel suite, with no further plans of being an interloper."

"Then she is alright," Christine breathed in relief.

"I did not kill her if that's what you mean."

She refrained from a reply to his scathing retort. He acted angry that she would think it. Could he blame her when by his own admission he evaded public recognition for such crimes?

They arrived at the door of her room. He looked beyond, into her chamber, then into her eyes. A light within seemed to make the gold in his eyes glow.

"I will give you the choice. We will talk here or in my chambers."

"T-talk?" A wash of nervousness drowned her hard won composure. "Surely there's no more to talk about, and I'm rather weary…"

"Here it is then." He strode past her into the room.

"No! That's not what I meant -" She turned to face him. "Can it not wait?"

Beyond his tall stature, the massive veiled bed stood, a monstrous presence that suddenly seemed to stretch to all four corners of the enclosed room. With his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows and the black trousers well-fitting to form, the Phantom looked lean and seductive, bold and dangerous, the dark mask an accent to that. Not for the first time she noticed that his baggy shirt had come undone in his exertions, baring a portion of his chest, a dusting of dark hair sprinkled against the sheen of skin.

Not so long ago Christine had jabbed that solid chest with her finger, unafraid. Now she wished to find a crevasse in the rock to slip into and hide herself from his burning eyes.

She hurried past him and to her dressing table, taking the chair there. He pivoted to look at her, his feet planted a short distance apart, his stance indolent. Quickly she picked up her hairbrush, a weak shield, but worthy to fill her trembling hands.

"I am curious with regard to our conversation earlier and your actions that followed," he began, "when you believed that I was the man with Jolene."

"Can you blame me for my mistake?" she quickly took the offense, feeling the heat burn her cheeks and forehead. "You have alluded to as much." She swiped the brush through her hair, wincing when it pulled at her scalp. The fibers caught in a hank of tangled curls. "And she clearly adores you."

He laughed outright. "You are insane."

"It's clear to me." Christine glared at him. "Perhaps I see it because I'm a woman and can tell these things. Yet with the way she threw herself at you tonight, you must be blind not to have seen it as well."

"Jolene was frightened and desperately sought to have her needs met. She would have granted any favor to receive that."

Disturbed by his blunt words and his callousness to air them when her eyes had not been able to miss their truth, she returned attention to untangling her hair from the fibers.

"When Jolene was not yet twelve, her mother died," he continued quietly. "Her uncle brought her to the hotel where he works as a concierge. While Jacques slept in a box nearby, her uncle took her into his bed."

Christine stopped picking at the bristles and looked up at him in shock.

"Within a week, he passed her around to clients. Within a month, she worked as a maid's apprentice, making beds in the day and visiting some of those same beds at night, while Jacques kept residence in a locked room or in the kitchens under the eyes of workers there. When she did not exact a favor requested in the manner expected, food and water were withheld from her and she was beaten or tied up and put in a dark room, the boy also threatened. When she granted a favor, she was rewarded with food, pretty ribbons and dresses. She soon learned that to eat well and wear nice things meant to smile prettily and please whatever perverse customer her uncle sent her to. She worked in that capacity for almost two years."

"How awful," Christine barely breathed, heartbroken for the girl's plight and beginning to understand her wanton behavior of earlier. "But - did she not learn differently in her time spent here with you?"

He narrowed his eyes. "What you really ask is did the monster seduce the child?"

She did not respond to his quiet scorn, did not deny it, and his tone took on an acerbic bent.

"After I brought them to my caverns that first night, Jolene did approach my bed, eager to show her gratitude while fearful to lose her new sanctuary," he said darkly, wishing to forget all of what happened that entire evening though he feared much of it would forever be emblazoned in his memory. "She had the body of a woman but the mind and years of a child…"

With the expertise seen in females twice her age, he dryly added to himself.

Jolene had possessed a gold mine of knowledge involving corporeal pleasures to the few nuggets the Phantom could then claim. The girl was strong-minded when she wanted something and feared to lose it. He had not then known her full history - or her daily fear of going without sustenance that ordered her steps and led the pretty little tart to become the best and most sought after of her uncle's girls. Retaining an air of innocence rare for one in her occupation, while eager to please and proficient at her task.

For once, he had not been at fault, not at first. At the same time had he not been as wicked and perverse as the customers Jolene gave favors to - that it had happened at all, no matter the excuse? A beast he was and always would be, fitting into the mold of the miscreants of Persia who desecrated young virgins at the palace. Though Jolene had been no innocent … and it had not helped that in his betrayed rage and pitiless sorrow he had earlier been drinking what many called the demon rum …

Feeling the betrayal of warmth flush his face and noting Christine's eyes sharpen on him, the Phantom turned on his heel and paced a short distance away to collect himself. The memory taunted, thankfully a mist of shadows though vivid flashes remained to accuse. He had evaded that darkest part of that bleak night for nearly three damnable years! But with the events of the evening, his mind betrayed him and traveled to that godforsaken period of time, hours after the opera _Tristan and Isolde_ had concluded…

At his first obscure knowledge of a soft, warm body nestled to his in the pitch darkness where he had collapsed intoxicated and exhausted, he thought it a salacious dream. He had never lain with a woman nor brought one to his chambers, his last and first actual encounter with the flesh in an empty corridor almost a year before that. Indeed, he had thought it was _Christine_ in his slumberous fantasy, his unconscious mind having mercifully escaped the painful truth of earlier…gentle kisses, tentative then passionate, he had drowsily returned. Warm, languid strokes of her hand down his chest and beyond eventually roused his rum-soaked brain to the barely lucid boundary between slumber and wakefulness. The exchange of that hand for the wet touch of lips and tongue taking him fully inside had him grab her head of long thick curls and move in hungered rhythm in his hazy, sensual fog, finding coveted haven in her hot, eager mouth - soon leading to the explosive finish - after which time he began to realize what was truly happening, and the glaring memory of his two unexpected guests returned.

The avid little harlot finished her deed then moved to rest her slight body atop his own. Fully aware and sober by then, the Phantom had grabbed her hips, wrenching her away and cursing at her for daring to sneak into his bed while he slept, to treat him as one of her lewd customers - thundering for her to leave his chambers and never return. In terror, she scrambled from his bed and fled in tears.

His stark revelation at the hotel before finding the orphans nearly destroyed him, and Jolene's explicit seduction led him to seek reckless flight to the world above, to find the nearest bottle of alcoholic substance he could obtain since he had exhausted his supply. He found more than that. His search led him down another deserted corridor, where once again he crossed paths with a beautiful dancer in her early twenties. This one had been crying angry tears and nursing a full bottle of wine she then shared. Once they emptied the bottle and half of another, she lifted her skirts for him and shared her warm body.

Winnie had become his second wild indiscretion to happen in the forgotten corridors, his first time actually to take a woman - in part because of wishing desperately to scour from his mind what occurred with Jolene - but mostly because of his intense hurt and anger spurred by Christine.

Once he finished with Winnie, warning her never to tell a soul, the Phantom returned to his lair with the remainder of the bottle. The yowling of the cat that followed him home led him to find the foolish little strumpet hiding in the darkness by the lake, where she huddled shivering and naked, her lips and toes and fingers nearly blue from the cold. She had stammered out a feeble apology for failing to please him and begged him not to beat her. In silence, he gave her a drink from the bottle then picked her up and carried her to his bed, covering her with thick blankets. Her skin remained dangerously like ice, her shaking uncontrollable. Against all better judgment he finished the wine, extinguished every candle and disrobed, intending to bring warmth back by holding her close against his heat for a brief time and rubbing her skin. It had worked … until the incessant memory of her unsolicited favor to him brought despicable urges that entered his inebriated mind, as eventually did her little mews from strokes of his hand that somehow lingered over lush curves and wandered to creamy areas forbidden.

Hard again, his aching need brushing soft flesh as she brashly wiggled her bottom closer, he had thrice-cursed himself and plunged, finding her as heated and wet as Winnie. Images in his drunken mind twisted and spun, prohibiting recollection of why he had ordered the girl away. In the darkness, with her long curls and slight form he soon confused her with Christine, much as Winnie also favored her. The girl giggled at his first awkward attempts, and incensed, he flipped her to her back then pumped strongly into her for long, decadent minutes - until breathless moans faded and the deed was done. Exhausted, he fell asleep against the warm cushion of her breasts, only to half awaken in the thick, cold dark to the novelty of softness, heat and wet flesh, and violate her again…

That black night of wickedness became an indistinct ritual for carnal gratification that led into the blindness of a pitch dark morn. Once the damning effects of the alcohol at last wore off and the Phantom realized his ghastly mistake and the extent of his depravity, he pulled away from the fatigued girl in horror, escaping the twisted sheets of his bed.

He had become physically ill from his overindulgences, his stomach purging what contents remained. Afterward, still shaking, he fully dressed, donning even his cloak, and sat in the main room near a pallet where the deaf boy yet slumbered. Sickened by his actions, he called himself the worst kind of monster for having coitus with a girl little more than a child, no matter that she was an accomplished prostitute. To try to atone for his transgression against her, he silently resolved to protect the girl from other fiends like himself who would plunder her youth, those who lived above. To become her guardian and make her his ward.

The little maid had soon awakened and approached with a blithe smile, thankfully in the dress in which he'd found her. He sternly ordered that she was never to speak of what happened between them, to forget it entirely. Nor was she ever again to come to his bed or draw near to offer favors - telling her that if she tried, he _would_ throw her out. But he vowed that if she obeyed him in all things, she would have a place of safety in his home and he would see to her material needs.

In the nearly three years that she lived with him, serving him, he never touched Jolene again, never wanted to. Nor did he again drink to the point of utter inebriation.

Tonight had been the first time she defied his wishes and rebelled against his commands.

Realizing Christine waited for him to continue, he broke free from his mental recounting of that foul night and coldly turned to face her. _She_ had been partly to blame for the extent of his actions, though of course she never knew it.

And she never would.

"Jolene soon realized I had no plan to throw her or the boy out and never again played for me the role she'd been taught. Tonight was her first performance since then."

He would not have been surprised had the foolish little maid tried to undo his trousers to perform fellatio on him in front of Christine, she had been strongly leaning in that direction. Jolene had no understanding of scruples - though he, too, was indecent. But he knew all of what he did was wicked leading to hellfire, after having been told daily for years by gypsies that he was the Devil's Child, later raised at the Heights to hear the sexton's incessant criticisms and the minister's fiery orations. Jolene had been taught that what was proper was to give pleasure at any given moment, in private, in public, no matter the place or the company, and at her uncle's depraved exclusive parties, she'd been passed around and freely sampled like a new vintage of sweet champagne. The Phantom, too, loathsome devil that he was, had repeatedly taken his fill of her that one black night. It was rare, but Christine was at last correct in her assumption of his dissolute past, with regard to his history with the girl. For that fiendish exploit alone he deserved her censure.

But this one offense among his multitude of sins was not why he had stayed to speak with her. Indeed, they had drifted far off the twisted path of what he burned to know…

x

Christine watched the Phantom carefully, stunned by the dull flush of color on what she could see of his face beneath the mask. The atypical characteristic branded him guilty, not that she was surprised.

At the memory of Jolene's brazen exhibition, Christine's face also heated and she viciously broke her hair free of the brush. With knowledge of the girl's perverse history, she did not doubt that should the Phantom visit her cell, Jolene would offer him whatever he desired in her desperation to remain in his home. And she was no longer a child to shun but a beautiful, well-endowed woman, skilled in how to give a man pleasure ... if he had _ever_ shunned her. His vague, clipped answer with regard to if he succumbed to the girl's "favors" on the night she came to his bed left her feeling sure that he had, and likely still did.

She might never know, and she had learned more tonight than she ever wished to know.

Perhaps it had been a mistake to speak up for Jolene. Someone so experienced could have surely found her way on the dark city streets…

Fiercely Christine sliced the brush through her hair a second time. Again it pulled and stuck, and she winced, tearing her hair free once more. She watched warily as the Phantom approached.

"What are you doing?" she asked, nerves taut and threatening to snap.

He grabbed the brush from her hand. "Preventing my new diva from going bald, with the need to wear a wig."

Christine scowled at him, assuming he would then walk away. She gasped as he moved to stand behind her and pulled the brush through her hair, where it again caught.

"You don't have to do that," she whispered, her heart quickening as he gently freed the tangles from the bristles. "I was managing well enough."

"I have a degree of experience in such tasks. Cease your dramatics, woman. And tell me instead: why is it that when you thought I was the man with Jolene in the 'disgusting performance' you bore witness to - you were ready to scratch my eyes out - _and_ hers as well…? But your tune remarkably changed when you learned the truth, and suddenly you were defending the wretched girl for her actions."

Christine felt trapped by the silken caress of his tone and the breathtaking accompaniment of his gentle touch. He held a thick section of her hair as he spoke, working tangles out from the bottom with the brush, and effectively rendering her immobile, trapped in his hold. His large warm hands in her hair and the light sweep of his fingers made her scalp tingle, made it difficult to think.

Only once had someone other than Berta or herself brushed her wild locks, and that was when she was eleven. She had sprained her wrist that morning, falling from one of the rocks on the moors. Erik had caught her frustrated left-handed attempts at using the hairbrush as she sat in her nightdress and tried to ready herself for bed.

_"You should learn to use both your hands, Christine, as I've been forced to do," he said as he entered her bedchamber and picked up the brush from the floor where it had fallen._

_"What do you mean?" she asked as he moved behind her and began the arduous task of brushing out her long, thick curls with his right hand._

_"That idiot tutor your father secured for us won't let me write with my left hand. He says it's a sign of the devil's possession. I should have told him how fitting that is, since I'm the Devil's Child…."_

_She caught a glimpse of the reddened inside of his left hand and grabbed his wrist in dismay, noting the angry welts that covered his palm and long, slender fingers where he'd been viciously hit with a reed…_

"Have you nothing to say?" The Phantom's words broke into the distressing memory, his right hand pressing the back of her scalp as his left glided the brush through the tresses he had loosed.

She blinked repeatedly, trying to capture scattered thoughts and separate the past from the present.

She must stop thinking of Erik when around this man. It made her weak. The years were dead and gone. Buried, where she must keep them. Deep in the vault of her heart.

"I - I don't know what you mean," she said, staring at her reflection. "I didn't _defend_ her actions."

"Nor did you denounce them - suddenly seeming not to care what Jolene did or that she had done it outside your chamber. Though you were extremely offended with her behavior before that … when you thought she was with me."

Christine gave a nervous laugh. "You were angry enough for us both. Someone had to maintain reason. Clearly you read more into my words than I intended."

"Did I…?" He quit brushing her hair, setting the instrument on the table, and lowered his body so that his head was near her own. His golden eyes burned into her dark ones in the mirror. "I believe your exact words were to show you the common courtesy not to rut with my whores outside your bath chamber. Tell me how to misconstrue that."

She glared at him, her skin flushing with rosy color. "Is it so inconceivable that I would ask that you not parade your doxies and your liaisons with them in my sight?"

"I only wonder that you would care."

"I _**don't**_ care!"

"No?" he asked, his tone decadent, rich and warm. "Then you would not be opposed should I decide to visit Jolene in her cell, perhaps to … accept her extended favors?"

"Is that to be her punishment?" she bit out, despising him and fisting her hand in her lap so as not to swing around and scratch his face.

"Trust me, Madame. She would not consider it a punishment."

Bitter tears pricked the backs of her eyes. "I don't care what the bloody hell you do. Screw every dancer of the chorus in the vacant corridors above - or copulate with your little maid in her prison cell the entire night - _I just don't want to hear about it!_"

He narrowed his eyes at her distraught reflection.

"Which begs the question - why are you so upset if you have no interest in my illicit relations?"

His tone came very soft, the lure of his eyes hypnotic, and she felt the imprint of his touch on her shoulders more intensely, burning her through her wrapper and nightdress.

Incensed that he should torment her so cruelly, manipulating all thought and distorting emotion, causing her to feel what she shouldn't while trying to strip away her dignity by coaxing her to admit what she never would say- what certainly_ was not true_- she stiffened her spine and regarded him with a calm unfamiliar to her.

"Take your vile hands off me, monsieur," she ordered with a grimace. "I cannot abide the thought of your wicked nightly trysts with your harlots only because your behavior is reprehensible and revolting. You expect fidelity in this pathetic excuse for a marriage and order me that I may never again _even_ _speak_ to one of my dearest friends when you do finally release me - but you clearly have every intention of continuing with your beastly conduct, even speaking to me of bedding your whores and taunting me with the prospect. _You disgust me!_"

His jaw hardened to stone, his eyes flashing golden fire. Her pulse racing with her verbal attack, she swiftly looked away from his image to the dressing table. His fingers bit into her shoulders painful seconds before he released her with a flourish and straightened, taking a step back.

"Then all is as it should be." His tone remained level, deep and impassive. "You are correct in your assumptions, Madame - I _am_ a beast. Repulsive, revolting. Do not presume that will change with a piece of paper that says we are joined…However, _I_ _will_ grant the favor of your request and concede to your wishes to keep _the full extent_ of my '_wicked nightly trysts'_ from your knowledge." His last words came caustic and mocking before he walked toward the entrance then stopped, his back to her. "I expect you at morning practice. Jolene will not be there to wake you. Do not be late."

Without another word, the Phantom quit her chamber.

Christine stared after his tall, retreating form until the door swung closed, then relinquished her sham of bravado and folded like the stem of a broken rose, dropping her forehead to her arms crossed on the table … too emotionally exhausted by the night's events to weep, while her mind remained active with all she had learned and what yet remained concealed.

She wondered where he had gone, whether to his chambers or elsewhere, the persistent question haunting her once she slipped into bed … the distinct possibilities taking her to linger at the edge of troubled sleep.

She did not care…

_She did not!_

The dampness of her pillow and the unwanted return of provocative dreams with the dark rogue suggested otherwise.

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: So now you know a bit more about that long ago night and about his history with Jolene- it's bitter, it's hard, it's shocking- but it really works well for where this story is going and fits who these characters are and their mindsets at the time. Hope you guys don't hate it or him now- it was his past and something he abhors. And yes, things between E & C are still pretty angsty, and Erik is being a bit cruel to her- (he brought her down there partly for revenge remember, to torment)- but expect a change in the atmosphere coming very soon…**


	43. Chapter 43

**A/N: Thank you so much for the wonderful and encouraging reviews! It makes me happy to know that most of you are still with me. :) This has not been looked at by anyone, so please forgive any flaws…**

**And now…**

* * *

**Chapter XLIII**

.

The Phantom offered a morsel of bread to the black feline, who delicately took it from his hand between sharp little teeth.

"Now she has me feeding you like a child. Is this not pathetic…"

Clearly not opposed to the idea, Faust then sniffed at the wedge of cheese on the Phantom's plate. He nudged the little beast's head away.

"There is not enough of that for the mortals who inhabit these caves. If you are still hungry, go find a small rodent. God knows there are plenty about."

A night without slumber had led him no closer to a decision about the young woman who most recently betrayed him. The old vow that he once made the girl, prompted by his shamed disgust for offenses against her, would not allow him to eject her from his home to fend for herself. In his dark rage the previous evening, he _would_ have thrown Jolene out onto the streets, but Christine's steady words of logic had broken through the red haze of vitriol that clouded his mind, and grimly he had relented.

What later compelled him to seek from his exasperating songbird coveted words that he knew he would never hear from her lips, he could not imagine. Insanity perhaps. Dwelling for years beneath the earth after living within the beautiful hell that was Persia could lead one to madness…

It was both droll and irksome that she thought him the Don Juan of the cellars when his last "wicked tryst" had been with Winnie, nearly three years ago. Yet in taunting Christine, his vengeful delight to witness her angry discomfiture had been fleeting, the hurt in her eyes a weapon that twisted his soul, inflicting a jagged blade of pain into his own heart...

With a soft curse, he straightened in his chair and hurriedly readjusted his mask, his abrupt actions causing the cat to leap down from the table and scamper away.

"How long have you been standing there?" he commanded without turning to look.

He heard her gasp at the realization that she'd been caught, then the light tread of her footsteps as she came to the table and faced him, with Faust now cradled like a baby in her arms. Her eyes lowered to his half empty plate then to his face, the light of shock in them.

"Did you truly think I did not eat?" he asked in curt amusement.

Christine barely shook her head as though still weary, and he wondered if she had also suffered a sleepless night.

"At times, I wondered," she admitted. "I must be early again?"

"Yes, though it would do well if we begin the lesson. The boy will be up soon and will need tended to."

"Of course. I can make his porridge."

"It is already on the stove."

She gave a stiff little nod. "And Jolene? What of her?"

The words seemed torn from her lips, and he lifted his brow.

"I thought you had no wish to know…?"

"Never mind!" She spun around and tossed Faust to the ground, then moved to retrieve the silver urn of boiled water used for drinking. "I only wondered if she'd eaten." She poured herself a glass.

The Phantom watched her stiff movements, finding scant satisfaction in his silken taunt. In the first month she inhabited his home, he took vengeful pleasure in making her suffer with his verbal blows and derisive rejoinders. But such punishment had lost its appeal of late.

He took a lemon and sliced it in half. Approaching her from behind, he drew close, careful not to touch any part of her as he reached around and squeezed the juice into her water. Her breathing grew slightly elevated as she kept her focus on the wall ahead, her back ramrod straight. The nearness of her warmth and scent coaxed him to press closer…

Swiftly he moved away before he could give into the maddening lure.

"If you wish it, you may take Jolene a meal after your lesson," he said quietly then turned to ascend the stairs and take his place at the organ, to prepare.

The practice went surprisingly well, free of the drama that lately plagued it. Three hours into the lesson, the boy appeared at the top of the stairs, and the Phantom put a temporary halt to operatic proceedings. He watched Christine dish out porridge and converse with Jacques through awkward hand motions and slow pronunciation of scarce words. A hint of grudging approval struggled to surface at how she endeavored to relate to the child. He had not presumed in these past four years that she had grown so entirely callous as to shun the boy for his differences, but neither did he suspect she would frequently reach out to him with such diligence.

Christine lifted her head, catching the Phantom's steady eyes watching her. A light flush of rose tinged her cheeks.

"What should we tell Jacques about his sister?" she asked as the boy fiddled with his spoon, showing little interest in his food.

"We tell him nothing."

She frowned, clearly displeased with his answer. Not wishing to engage in another argument or have her sulk and become problematic during the continuation of her practice, he waved a hand toward her and turned back to his work.

"Go. Take the fool little maid a tray. We will resume Act Four upon your return."

.

xXx

.

Christine approached Jolene's prison door, setting the tray down to unbar it. Once she entered, Jolene warily regarded her from where she sat up in bed then looked at the items Christine had brought.

She set the tray with breakfast on the ground near the cot, and pulled from her arm one of the girl's woolen dresses and a pair of black stockings, also setting her shoes on the ground.

"I remember how horrid it was to have cold feet," Christine said lightly. "I'm sorry, it's only porridge with a bit of bread and cheese. I'll try to bring something more substantial for dinner."

"Why are you being kind to me?" A sliver of remorse in the girl's tone battled with what sounded like resentment.

"Why would I not?" Christine drew her brows together in remembered agitation. "It is partially my fault that you're here, Jolene. I misunderstood what happened last night. I spoke when perhaps I should have remained silent. I had thought…" She broke off flustered, not wanting to admit her misconception with regard to the Phantom.

"I know what you thought. It's what I wanted you to think."

Christine looked at the girl in stunned disbelief.

"My mistake was in believing that you would not care enough to go to the Maestro with what you had seen. I _wanted_ you to see and to think he was with me. I hoped you would then escape with your friend and return to your world while the Maestro was absent. She was supposed to come find you. But he must have found her first…"

Taken aback by her full disclosure, Christine shook her head. "You _staged_ that? But - why would you practice such deceit? I don't understand. I thought we were getting along at one point."

"You don't belong here," the girl said bitterly. "You care nothing for him, only wishing to hurt him with your words and your actions. Always trying to escape - making him angry. Making him sad. He deserves to be loved like anyone else - _and more than most!_"

"And you think you're the one to do that," Christine whispered.

Jolene's bright blue eyes dropped to the blanket that covered her legs, her manner quieter after her outburst. "He is not like other men. At first I thought he was and behaved toward him as my uncle taught, but the Maestro was different. He held me and warmed me. With him, I did not have to pretend," she whispered bluntly. "He made me feel safe and has taken care of me, expecting no favors in return. _No man_ has done that, not even my father…"

Christine felt sickened by the girl's deliberate words, confronted with both another facet of her horrific past and the verity of her intimate knowledge of the Phantom.

"I wish only to make him happy," Jolene said, lifting her eyes, shining with tears. "Oui. I love him and wish again to make love to him, even if he can never love me -"

"You do realize I'm his wife," Christine interrupted, her voice hoarse.

"But you do not love him as a wife! You will not even touch him. I have seen. I have heard. You treat him as a beast and call him one. He is unhappy. You are unhappy. You should never have married him! You should go back to your world above -"

Christine stood to her feet. "I promised him that I would stay. I have no wish to hear any more of this…"

"Why? Because you know I'm right? Do you wish to make him even more miserable than he is?" A tear broke free from the girl's dark lashes and rolled down her cheek.

"I am here to sing for him."

"You can do that at the opera."

"I'm not yet ready," Christine said faintly.

"And when you are ready, will you go away and stay away? It's what you have said you want. Then you can be happy, and I can make him happy."

"And what of your friend last night?" Christine asked a bit caustically.

"He means nothing. I met him once. He favors the Maestro in build and has the same black hair. I saw the opportunity and took it."

"I must return before the Maestro grows impatient." Christine hastened to the door, needing escape from the Phantom's potential young mistress and the bitter feelings of resentment the girl invoked.

"Who is Erik?"

At Jolene's soft, insistent words, Christine's heart froze. Slowly she turned to face her.

"Why do you ask?" she breathed.

"When you were ill and I sat by your bedside, you called out for him, begging him to come find you, to come back to you."

"He was someone very special." She could barely get the words out.

"You loved him?"

"Yes."

"You wished for his happiness and to be with him?"

"Always." Hot moisture coated her eyes and she rapidly blinked it away.

"Tell me, would you have done_ anything? -_ sacrificed _anything -_ to make that possible?"

Her throat choked with emotion, Christine could give no answer. Jolene nodded quietly.

"I think you begin to understand."

.

xXx

.

Arabella alighted from the carriage, a determined spring to her steps. Her attempts to speak with Madame Giry last night had failed, a dancer explaining that Madame had left on an errand and she didn't know when to expect her back. Whether it had been a ploy of evasion, Arabella was uncertain, but the girl clearly had been too tense to say more.

Arriving at the end of rehearsal ensured that she would gain her audience with the ballet headmistress, and she smiled in victory when she spotted the somberly dressed woman as she instructed her dancers on their errors. Arabella listened to the mild tirade, realizing at once that Christine never had a chance with what little she'd taught her … and yet, within one week of her arrival, the Phantom announced she would sing the lead while keeping the identity of his diva a mystery to all within the theater. It was _still_ a mystery to those who worked at the Opera.

Nothing added up, and for Christine's sake Arabella needed to understand.

She warred with her conscience in leaving her sweet friend within the chill dark caverns and in the company of such a dangerous man, no matter that she'd had little choice at the time. Christine actually seemed _content_ to be there from what she heard, which also made no sense.

The silk scarf Arabella had knotted at her throat hid the bruises from his stranglehold, and there was still a slight rasp when she spoke that Raoul noticed once he returned to their suite after his ventures the previous evening. Of course her cousin possessed no inkling of her investigation that had led to an evening stroll to the Phantom's hideaway, thinking her helpless and in need of continual protection. Because of his insistence to treat her like a china doll, she decided to leave him in the dark, at least for the present. Raoul had admonished her to stay in bed, thinking her hoarseness due to a cold, then retired for the night. An hour ago, after wishing her a pleasant good morning and advising her to take care of herself, with a brush of his lips to her forehead that surprised and pleased Arabella, he had left on his never-ending search to find a way to capture the Phantom.

Arabella had found the Phantom, but now must learn more about his ways…

"Madame Giry," she said approaching the stage after the girls' dismissal, before the ballet instructor could whisk away into the wings. The woman always seemed to be in swift motion, rushing to and fro.

Madame looked less than pleased to see her and gave a curt little nod. "Lady de Chagny."

"I should like to speak with you."

"My apologies, I'm very busy."

"Ten minutes of your time. That's all I ask."

Madame hesitated. "Very well. We can speak in my office."

She led the way down a backstage corridor to a cramped room cluttered with memorabilia of the dance, and motioned to a chair opposite a desk just as cluttered, behind which she then took a seat.

"I'm sorry I have no refreshment to offer."

Arabella waved the courtesy away. "I don't need anything to drink."

"Why did you ask to speak with me?" Madame asked with pointed caution.

"I wish to know more about the Phantom of the Opera."

Madame shifted papers around on her desk. "I'm sorry. There's not much I can tell you."

"I talked to several members of the chorus. All of them told me that you work as his assistant."

She frowned. "Be that as it may, I cannot help you."

"Madame Giry," Arabella said pleasantly, folding her hands in her lap. "I think we both know that the Phantom has Christine, and for you to play this continual game of avoidance is tiring to us both. If it eases your mind, whatever you reveal to me will be kept in the strictest confidence. I have no intention of leaving here to contact the authorities or even to tell my cousin."

Madame narrowed her eyes pensively. "Then you must no longer suspect that Christine is in danger."

"Clearly you do not think so. And you don't strike me as a heartless woman who could so calmly sit there, day after day, and give no aid - if a young woman's life was in jeopardy."

A grudging smile tilted her thin lips. "You speak correctly."

A look of mutual respect passed between them, and the tension in the room eased a degree.

"I would like to know about the morning of Christine's audition. I understand the Phantom dropped you a note. Will you tell me what it said?"

Madame struggled within herself. Arabella waited as patiently as possible, understanding the woman's desire to remain loyal to her employer, even if it was a source of Arabella's current frustration.

"He told me not to let her go."

"But her audition was so badly done that you hired her as a maid? Is that correct?"

"It was preposterous. Her dance was abysmal, and she would not sing."

"She would not sing?" Arabella repeated in curious surprise, recalling Christine's clear bell like tones ringing distantly from the belly of the monstrous caverns.

And yet, for all that, within days this Phantom of the Opera who ruled the theater with iron control and stern demands had abducted a newcomer _to make her_ _his star?_

"She stressed that she could not do so and refused to try, no matter that I told her it was a condition of joining the chorus."

This sounded like Christine of the past three years, once she woke from her catatonic state. A pale replica of the spirited girl she'd once been, quietly refusing all persuasions and requests to hear her angelic voice in song, due to her broken heart over the loss of a childhood friend.

"But then…how…?" Arabella rubbed the scarf at her neck, just stopping herself from asking how the Phantom initially would even _know_ Christine _could_ sing, and sing well enough to become a new lead. She had no desire to reveal anything that would divulge her encounter with him and carefully searched for words. "Why exactly did the Phantom wish for her to stay on, since it's my understanding that he only takes an active interest in the performances, _especially_ in the singing?"

"That I cannot tell you, because I don't know the answer."

"Is there anything you feel comfortable to share about the man himself?"

She waited a moment to speak. "He is a composer and a magician. A true connoisseur of the arts and a genius in many fields. The managers of old will tell you they were the cause, but it was the Phantom who saved the Opera House from going under. Music is in his blood."

"You have heard him play?"

"Once. From a distance. He plays the violin with such beauty and depth of emotion, _he_ should be manager here. He understands what is best for the opera. His directives when obeyed never fail to enhance the quality of the performances."

Arabella soaked in that information, beginning to understand with Madame's forceful declaration that she was enamored of his skills, which in part must be why she would serve such a dangerous man in the capacity she did. The woman was as intelligent as she was shrewd. She would not act against her better judgment.

"When did he first come to the Opera House?"

Madame sighed. "He first made his presence known to me three years ago."

Three years…

The pieces sounded as if they should fit, but the puzzle still lacked sense.

"Do you know where he lived before that?"

"No…only…"

"Yes?" Arabella urged, eager for whatever morsel of information she could glean.

Madame narrowed her eyes, recalling that day. "He spoke with an accent foreign to France."

"Do you know what country?"

"I have collaborated with many foreigners in my profession on the stage. My first thought was England, but there was also a hint of a more fluid intonation unfamiliar to me. Since then he has adopted the French and speaks with little inflection of his old accent."

"Would it be pushing things to ask for a description of his appearance?" Arabella quipped, knowing only that he was tall, lean, and strong of build, from being held captive against him. And his voice was both decadent and lethal…a beauty and a terror…

Madame smiled secretively. "There are many here who could tell you that."

Arabella curbed a sigh. Yes, she had heard the bizarre accounts of the crude stagehands - from a monster with no nose and burning eyes to a skeleton and a corpse. She didn't believe any of them, but remembered all accounts bore one trait in common.

"Does he always wear a mask?"

Madame gave a cryptic nod.

"Do you know why?"

"I never asked."

"What of his name?"

"That I never asked either." She looked at a clock on her desk. "I really must return to my duties."

"Madame, one last thing. Can you tell me if the accounts are true - did he kill one of the stagehands a year ago? Is he indeed a murderer?"

A guarded look entered the woman's pale blue eyes. "There are always bizarre accidents at the theater that find their way into becoming legends. It is the way of the stage, by those who daily take on other roles, the boundaries between what is real and what is fantasy becoming blurred. Some here will tell you in sound belief that he is a true ghost who haunts the theater - thus the name he was given." She spread her hands in a shrug. "You see why such a question is impossible to answer with accuracy. From one you will hear the Phantom strangled the man. From another you will hear he was a true ghost seeking revenge. When in all probability late in the night Monsieur Buquet's brother stumbled on the ropes in the flies and became tangled in them, falling to his death."

Arabella noted that the woman did not reply with what she believed was true or sound as sure as her words.

"Thank you for your time, Madame Giry. I'll see myself out."

The woman gave a vague nod, her eyes watchful, and Arabella felt sure she was still hiding something.

Once she returned backstage, Arabella made a point to speak to a few dancers, all who were eager to tell what little they knew of the Phantom. She learned that two of their number who no longer worked there had actually seen him in close quarters, their accounts of his appearance striking.

"Juliet said he wore a white mask over the right side of his face, and Winnie swore it was black and full, like a bandit's - but both agreed he was dark and alluring and had the most riveting golden eyes - like flames that burn," the little dancer, Jammes, excitedly told her.

Most peculiar to her in attitude was Madame's daughter, Meg, who no longer seemed the least bit worried about her new friend. "You needn't be concerned, Lady de Chagny. I'm certain that Christine is alright. She'll return to us one day." The dancer spoke as though she knew the words to be fact, a mysterious smile tilting her lips. And though Arabella heard from the Phantom's own mouth that Christine would soon return to take the stage - she wondered what caused the quicksilver change in Meg. Clearly she knew something she wasn't telling, but Arabella had pushed her advantage and didn't linger to demand more. She had no wish to aggravate those from whom she might require future answers.

Arabella returned to her carriage in a fog, all of what she learned making no more sense than when she first arrived, yet much of it striking a vague, familiar chord.

Where had she heard such things before?

Halfway to the hotel, she at last began to recall those similarities, enthusiastically shared with her throughout all of one night, three years ago upon their return to France - about another man she had barely met and his genius and mastery on the violin and piano. His magic. His artistic skills. His innate ability to compose music and lyrics. His protectiveness and deep soul ties to Christine and hers to him during the decade they had grown up together, with shared plans to take on the world with their music - their relationship so powerful and complex that Christine had lost the fight to live, then later the will to sing once he was so ruthlessly taken from her…

Until three days after her arrival to Paris as a fugitive, when suddenly she was to become the Phantom's star in his new opera.

_"…I must confess, when we went to see Tristan and Isolde, I felt as if he was there with me in Box 5, watching me. Of course I know it couldn't have been …Did you see him, Arabella, that night he came to the Grange after I fell? Did you see his eyes behind the mask? No? A pity. You would never forget them if you had…They were golden, his lashes thick and black with a slight curl to their tips - the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen and ever will see - like candles glowing in the night and scattering the darkness from my soul…though he was sometimes so dark, so very dark with his talk of curses and revenge. And he could be so difficult, demanding his way most of the time. But I didn't care because I loved him. He made me feel complete…"_

"My God!" Arabella gasped, numb with shock of the revelation, her eyes going wide…

Shaken by what she knew _couldn't_ _possibly_ be true…

(The dead didn't come back to life!)

…a surreal conviction burning inside her heart that it was no vain imagining - as at last the puzzle of the Phantom and Christine clicked into a clear, sharp picture that finally made sense.

.

xXx

.

Once Christine returned from taking the little French maid her tray, the Phantom noted that his songbird had become quiet and more sullen than before she left.

"Did something happen of which I should be made aware?" he finally asked after several minutes of this behavior, weary of her brusque movements and covert glances toward him when she thought he failed to notice.

He turned the full strength of his gaze on her.

Abruptly she looked away from him and took the boy's bowl from the table. Jacques now played a short distance away, sitting beside the lake.

"No. Nothing at all."

Her words held a distinct bite. The Phantom harshly exhaled a breath wrapped in a curse. It was clear they would get little accomplished in this hour.

"Go. Eat your meal," he ordered curtly.

"I have no appetite."

"Are you unwell?"

He critically appraised her figure. The dresses he selected from the costume room no longer hung on her, now molding her form to perfection, the nearly skeletal girl that had entered his home more than a month ago a thing of the past. The hue of roses bloomed in her creamy skin, her eyes dark and shining bright, and he felt the damnable quickening in his loins, which of late happened with frequency when she was near.

"I wish to sing." She smoothed her hands down the sides of her dark skirt, the customary act serving to draw attention to her slender waist and the wide flare of her hips. "It is after all the agreement. That I would sing for you."

Her odd choice of words and unconscious behavior did little to soothe his temper or cool his blood. He warily watched her approach.

Damn the wretched girl for her alluring beauty, she had always affected him so strongly and had been a continual enticement since the moment he first set eyes on her slumbering form through the looking glass. His cutting words of disinterest to bed her had been both a punishing lie and a necessary defense. In hearing himself wield the cruel slurs, he could almost believe them, could then draw away and adopt the cold, indifference vital to the success of his plan…

Yes, that would have been preferred. Except a shift had occurred since they were wed, a contradiction he never anticipated when in his hard-won detachment he coolly formulated the idea of marriage to his captive a year ago.

With the knowledge that Christine was now his wife, he burned for her until he thought he would go mad. The heated dreams of them entwined in passion returned en force, the desire suffocating when he woke, the only strand of reason holding him back from taking her to his bed and ravishing her into submission the truth that brought them here, to this place of cold and damp and darkness.

Her act of heartless betrayal. His vow of eternal revenge.

She did not want him.

He would not have her.

Never could he again allow himself to fall under her spell, and in regaining that knowledge, the Phantom composed himself. His ardor cooled, he studied his taxing student with aloof scorn.

"You speak in truth, Madame. The agreement is that you will sing for me and I will teach you. So let us begin…"

A fire impassioned her voice, the angelic quality diminished and a temptress rising to the fore, the excellence of her tone unbroken. He closed his eyes in utter delight, pushing aside the stir of intense feelings she roused in his excitement to hear what he had so long dreamed. THIS was Aminta! His creation…her voice…a masterpiece in the making.

Once the last clear note rang through the chamber, he pulled his hands from the keys, shaken. When at last he turned his head her way, he noted her curious surprise to see the moisture that wet his lashes. Her gaze lowered to the faint upturn of his lips.

"Bravissima," he said simply. "You have attained that which I knew burned deeply within your soul."

A pleased smile lifted her lips. "Then I am ready?"

At the reminder of her keen desire to leave him and return to the world above, his elation faded somewhat.

"Not yet. There is still much you have to learn. But today marks the first true progress you have made."

Her smile did not waver with his pronouncement, and he took foolish satisfaction in the knowledge that her delight was in her accomplishment, not in the hope of abandoning his dark caves.

Forcing strict and somber distance he continued with the practice.

When the time came to conclude, he was satisfied with her vocal performance despite that she still lacked in major areas needed for the stage, to engage an audience of hundreds of critical spectators. He dismissed her and returned to his budding opus, his senses aware of her movements as she bustled about his chamber.

At the clanging of a chain slowly winding upon itself, he looked over his shoulder in surprise to see her raise the trunk he had waterproofed to hold food. So, she had made that discovery, likely with the boy's help, and he watched Jacques scamper to her side to hand her the pole.

The Phantom turned back to his work.

Chopping sounds and the clink of metal punctuated the air, which soon filled with the aroma of vegetables cooking. His eyes drawn to where his mind wandered, he watched her stir something on the stove. Jacques sat at the table, eating his meal. It was his sister's custom to feed the boy and put him to bed before the evening practice with Christine concluded, when she would then eat. A third time, the Phantom looked away to concentrate on his work.

When he glanced in that direction again, they were both absent. In all likelihood she had put the boy to bed. He also should soon leave to make the weekly check of his traps, to ensure they remained in working order, obtain mortar to finish the barricade, perhaps go above to speak with Madame. He decided to first finish jotting another stanza, picking out chords as he did.

The warm touch of Christine's hand upon his shoulder startled him to flinch away and swing around on the bench in stiff question. Once she had approached with a dagger to seek freedom, another time to rip his mask away in her quest for truth. Strangely, he had never felt more vulnerable than by the gentle touch of her hand…

She blinked in embarrassed confusion, dropping her arm to her side. The nearby candlelight played in her dark hair, shimmering ripples in an enchantment of red and golden highlight and black shadow. Flame and darkness.

"I'm sorry - I did try speaking to you, but you were so engrossed in your work that you didn't hear."

While true that he often grew absorbed in his compositions, he highly doubted that he would not have heard her, as bloody attuned to her as he felt, unless she spoke at a whisper from across the chamber. A night without sleep - a host of them actually, if one counted the dreams that gave no rest - must be catching up to him.

"What is it you wish to say?" he asked carefully.

She clasped her hands in her skirts, looking very awkward, and he narrowed his eyes and tensed, waiting for her to speak.

"I only wished to extend an invitation for you to join me…"

Unclenching one of her hands she motioned to the table, where he glanced to see two place settings had appeared along with a many-branched candlestick that glowed between.

"…For supper."

Her last two words coaxed him in their softness…

While a sense of impending dread made his mouth go dry.

xXx


	44. Chapter 44

**A/N: Thank you for the phan-tastic reviews! :D While I can't always promise such quick updates (I'm working on two other stories here also)- I love this time of year, and when I realized the time frame of my story fits, well, I just couldn't resist… ;-)**

* * *

**Chapter XLIV**

**.**

At the Phantom's continued silence, Christine felt her every nerve strung taut as piano wire.

"That is, if you're not too busy…"

"You wish me to dine with you," he said quietly, not believing the words, as if by repeating them he might find an excuse for their existence. "Why?"

"Does there have to be a reason?"

"There is a reason for everything, though it's not always apparent."

She exhaled an agitated breath. "Fine. If you must have a reason, I grow weary of living in a constant state of discord. I have agreed to every condition you gave when we first met in your caverns. I have become your student, and I will sing for you in your opera as your Aminta. I married you." Her voice wavered slightly on the last words. "Now I ask for this one favor in return. To live through at least one day without chaos or argument or tension - at the very least, one hour - and I think dining together would be a worthy step toward making that happen."

During her nervous rationalization he crossed his arms nonchalantly over his chest and tilted his head, observing her in a cavalier manner as if he'd come to a sure conclusion.

"Do not suppose for a minute that I cannot discern the motive beneath your sudden change of heart. I see past your manipulations. And I assure you, Madame, that though you may have resigned yourself no longer to run or seek escape from this prison, to engage in the pretense of seeking amity will not gain you an earlier release from my dark catacombs either."

"Oh, never mind," she snapped. "You are so entombed in a mire of distrust and bitterness that you wouldn't even recognize the offer of a truce if it rose up from those organ pipes and bit you on the nose."

"That doesn't sound very conducive to peace." He uncrossed his arms and wryly lifted his hands. "Such unique words coming from you - surely you can understand my hesitation? Last night you were ready to tear my eyes out. This night, you invite me to dine with you. What has changed? Or has it? Will I find poison in my wine and ground glass in my pudding?"

She grimaced at his acerbic wit. "I don't wish to discuss last night ever again. I had actually thought to invite you before yesterday, but never was given a chance to ask." She shook her head. "I can see this was a foolish mistake. It was only a suggestion of a meal, and we both must eat. I thought it might be a pleasant change to try to do so together, since I'm to share these caverns with you until you decide otherwise. It does get rather lonely here. But instead you wish only to mock me for an honest offering of peace. I'm sorry I bothered you."

With her head held high, Christine pivoted before he had a chance to counter with another jab. She took the steps down to the dining table, the defeat of her words telling him he'd won. While the undercurrent of anger in her tone expressed how extremely fatigued she was of these unending battles with their cutting rejoinders between them.

She purposely took the chair away from him, at the head of the table, sitting with her back to the rock dais. When the silence grew too great to bear and she no longer could hear even the faint shuffle of a page or the scratch of his quill, she dropped her napkin on the ground, on the pretext to look at him. Head lowered, she grabbed the napkin, barely turning her head to peek, then hurriedly straightened, looking fully behind her.

The organ was abandoned, her indifferent tyrant nowhere to be seen.

Blast him. Or maybe it was better this way. Had she truly thought the pretentious Phantom would yield?

She poured more red wine into her glass and drank half while barely skimming her soup with a spoon, nudging the vegetables around the bowl in their liquid.

A sudden movement out of the corner of her eye made her turn her head to see. The Phantom moved into view from behind her and came to stand at the back of what would have been her chair had she not taken the one meant for him.

Christine blinked in shock, both at his unexpected arrival and the new mask he wore. Of a softer material and lighter black than his usual covering, it ended a short distance below his nose, though the cut of it followed both cheeks at a downward curve toward the jaw and back to the ears like the original did. But this one didn't fit as rigidly around his mouth, which she could see fully for the first time. She stared at the sensuous curves of his upper lip, slightly less full than the lower…

"Does the invitation still stand?"

His quiet words pulled her from her intent perusal, and she swallowed hard and nodded. Unable to keep from staring, she watched, as with the graceful agility to which she was now accustomed he pulled back the chair and took a seat. The distance between them moderate, the table not long in length, her eyes lifted to his golden ones. His gaze held hers a breathless moment then dropped to her bowl.

"Is the meal not to your liking?"

His earlier barbed words had lent to her loss of appetite, but now she felt as if she could do the meal justice. "I should say it is. A better potato, carrot, and onion soup you'll not find, monsieur."

He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes in acute observation. "She gloats."

Christine nervously giggled at his absurd remark - the last thing she expected the brooding Phantom to say - or perhaps it was the sudden and welcome break of heaviness in the atmosphere that lent to her ease. "Not at all. I speak the truth. Though I regret that vegetables is all there is. We have no more meat or bread. The larder is somewhat bare."

He nodded and took a sip of wine. "I shall need to go above and seek Madame's help to gather provisions. It was Jolene's task to go to market."

Christine had no desire to talk about Jolene. Noting he took a second sip of wine, she raised her brow. "Tell me that the great Phantom of the Opera is not apprehensive over a simple bowl of soup?"

"With your eagerness to persuade me to indulge, I am inclined to believe my earlier conjecture - that you resorted to poison."

Rather than take offense a second time, she smiled sweetly. "But, monsieur, why would I destroy a perfectly good bowl of soup, when the deadly tines of a fork could achieve the purpose with so much more satisfaction?"

At the dry reminder of their altercation over her concealed choice of weaponry - a matter in which she felt surprised she could find amusement, since she had been the one mocked at the time - to Christine's shock, the Phantom laughed. Not in ridicule or disdain, but a genuine laugh that brought a light of mirth to his eyes, making them shine more golden.

She warmly shivered, resolving that she _would_ hear that rich sound again. His laugh was as beautiful as his song.

"I have noticed you no longer collect them," he mused.

"One is enough to keep as a warning," she said just as lightly.

He inclined his head, a half smile twisting his lips. "I shall keep that in mind."

"Please do." She glanced down at his bowl. "Your soup is getting cold."

"Ah, yes…" His smile faded. "The soup."

He finally took a small bite - making even that simple act one of fluid poetry- then looked up at her in shock.

"I told you it was good," she said smugly.

"Where did you learn to cook like this? To cook at all?"

She puzzled over his queries. Was it so astounding that she'd been taught to prepare food? To her knowledge, most women of the working class, what he thought her to be and what she had lately become, were taught as small children, hanging by their mother's apron strings to watch and learn. Christine had no wish to lie, but if she should mention her nursemaid - that she even had one would likely invite further ridicule of her past. Not wishing to go down that path again, she carefully selected what to say.

"A member of the family, Berta, taught me all I know, especially how to compliment each dish with the right herbs. Many of which you have in your kitchen."

The Phantom absently nodded. Berta had been as much his nurse as Christine's in those early years at The Heights when her father was alive. Upon remembering the woman's frightful superstitions he sensed Berta had feared him, both for his gypsy beginnings and the appellation of his face. She once glimpsed it, on his second day there, when in her sternness about cleanliness she ordered him to strip to nothing and step into a washtub of hot water before the fire. She had snatched away the canvas covering, but he'd been quick to turn aside. He recalled that she had gasped with what little she had seen, and all the while she scrubbed him did not once insist he remove his hand from hiding his deformity.

Curiosity prodded him to inquire, "The two of you must have been close. What happened to change that?"

"Change it?"

"Your arrival in Paris to the theater."

"Nothing happened." Her eyes took on a wistful shine. After a brief span she lifted them to his. "You were right when you said that people leave and Jacques must learn that lesson early in life. But it's not just women who go.…"

The Vicomte, of course. That must be the basis for the reason she came to France. The infernal scoundrel had broken her heart.

"My father died when I was just turned twelve," she said quietly. "And there was another who left me, when I was just sixteen, exactly one week after my birthday…"

His heart pounded to realize she was talking about him.

This was dangerous territory. But the need to hear more, provoked by a sadistic tendency to self inflict pain, for that is what it must be, propelled him to continue along the jagged edge of disclosure.

"Perhaps it was his destiny to go."

She looked at him strangely. "I didn't say it was a man."

"You mentioned that it was not only women who left," he carefully stated. "That implies the opposite gender."

"Oh." She frowned. "Yes, I see. But no, it was not his destiny."

"You are so certain?" Intently he observed her reaction.

She miserably sighed and nodded. "Others stole from him what should have been a choice. And he would have chosen correctly, I'm sure of it. But it was never his choice to make…"

What in the bloody hell was she talking about? He stared at her in disbelief, wanting to shake the pretense out of her until she confessed her cruel part in the malicious little game she once played with the boy against him. A game of deceit and manipulation that ended in his near death. At the grisly reminder of that day and what followed, he worked hard to regain control, to push unwanted feelings to a shadowed corner of his heart and adapt the cool stony exterior needed when in her presence.

A feat that grew more difficult with each night and day that passed.

This had been a mistake. He should have allowed his suspicion of her behavior to take dominance and prevent him from joining her for the meal. Curiosity to see what new trickery she was up to compelled him to tie on the mask he fashioned for dining purposes - another foolish undertaking on his part, to make the mask to begin with! He had crafted it the first night she alluded to the question of his eating habits - with no conscious plan to take a meal with her and no real understanding of why he made the damn thing in the first place.

He should go, excuse himself, flee from the table…

Her hand trembled as she took a small bite of soup, then drank a tiny sip of wine. She blotted the moisture from her lips with her napkin. He found himself continuing to stare at her parted mouth and inhaled an inaudible gasp when the tip of her tongue peeked out to wet her lower lip. Her lashes flicked upward, and he lifted his focus to haunted eyes, so dark and deep and mysterious he could drown in them.

The Phantom tore his gaze from his disturbing dinner companion and drank half his wine in three swallows. He set down his goblet, never lifting his gaze from the crystal stem.

"Tell me about your father," he said quietly.

xXx

Due to her extended time beneath the earth, Christine had lost track of the days. Not until she spoke to the Phantom of her dear sweet Papa and her favorite childhood memories with him did she bother to count the marks she daily scratched onto the wall near her dressing table. Over two months had elapsed and with a start, she realized the season.

She may be entombed beneath the earth in a never-ending world of shadow and rock, but like her Papa she always greeted this time of year with goodwill and enthusiasm. With that in mind, she wished to spread a little cheer where she could…

Or at least make the attempt.

Once the Phantom excused her from evening practice, he mentioned he was going above for the supplies to which he had given Madame a list the previous day, followed by his usual warning mixed with a threat on the subject of any attempted escape she might make. After her solemn reassurance that she would remain and honor her vow to him - words she must have said a hundred times by now - Christine waited until he'd gone, then hurried in search of the boy.

She found Jacques playing in the interior lake room. He had become sullen these last few days, less inclined to communicate. When he didn't look up or acknowledge her presence though she stood in his light and cast a shadow over him, Christine bent down and grabbed up two of his wooden soldiers.

This earned her an immediate reaction, his eyes snapping to hers, full of angst and anger. He thrust out his hand in demand to have them back, reminding her so much of his father it was almost unnerving.

"Come with me," she enunciated slowly and retraced her steps to the Phantom's bedchamber, heartened when she heard the boy's footsteps behind her.

Taking up a torch, she led him through the long passages, coming to a stop at the barred door.

She hesitated, knowing what she was about to do would certainly earn the Phantom's wrath should he discover it, but Jolene's punishment was unfair to young Jacques who deserved no sentence. And even prisoners received visitors, did they not?

Upon opening the heavy door, it was worth any stern reprimand she might suffer to see the boy's face light up as if, indeed, the Yuletide had been brought to his doorstep.

He ran into Jolene's embrace and hugged his sister tightly. With tears sparkling in her eyes, Jolene looked up at Christine, shaking her head a little, too stunned to speak.

"I'll give you some time alone," Christine said, setting the wooden soldiers on the bed.

She left before Jolene could speak and closed the door behind her, then wondered what to do for the next half hour. She was uncertain how much time she should allow for their covert visit, but remembering her trek with the Phantom to the opera house, where it was likely he would meet Madame Giry, she estimated that she had a little under an hour before his return. Unless he took a shorter route to get there. He seemed to have a myriad of secret passages, and Christine remembered the Phantom demanding that Jolene tell him which entrance she had divulged to his enemies, so there must be more than one…

Experiencing a sudden fit of nervous tension, Christine barred the door and hurried the short distance to her room. She straightened the area then sat on the edge of her bed to pet a languid Mozart. As she did, she forced herself not to think of what her captor might do if he should find out. Her mind traveled back to the past three evenings…

After the first evening she had dined with the Phantom, counting her endeavor a worthy success, Christine again issued an invitation for him to join her the following night. To her relief, he accepted after only a slight hesitation and with no repeated accusations.

On the third night, she had no need to issue the invitation. To her surprise, she found him standing at the table once she turned from the stove top with what was left of their larder. Once more he had exchanged his usual stiff mask for what she'd come to think of as his dinner mask. He held back as though not fully certain.

"I assume you have no objections?" he asked warily.

"Please." She had smiled and motioned to the head of the table, as if she were the hostess and he the guest. "Be seated."

With each night that elapsed their ease of conversation progressed until Christine could see little of the ogre who once claimed her for his prisoner in the captivating dinner companion who entertained with stories of his exploits at the opera house. Some tales were amusing, such as his harmless pranks on La Carlotta, and Christine had laughed to imagine the haughty singer covered head to foot in white face powder. The previous night he embellished on his nocturnal forays, dangerous to himself and to whoever was his prey or the hunter, though thankfully the topic of death was withheld from the dinner conversation. She gave a little shiver upon remembering his somber recounting, at least grateful that for all his propensity to torment her, the Phantom had not once physically harmed her. And she was convinced he never would.

After a fair amount of time, with no way to tell how much of it had passed, she returned to the cell chamber.

Jacques sat cross-legged on the bed facing Jolene, who busily made motions with her hands in communication. She glanced up at Christine's arrival.

"Tell him he must remain silent about this visit," Christine instructed.

"Do not tell the Maestro you came here," the maid said slowly, also using her hands. "This is our secret."

The boy nodded.

"We must go before he returns," Christine said.

Jolene looked at her, clearly apprehensive to speak. "Do you know how much longer the Maestro plans to keep me here?"

"I intend to speak with him tonight on the matter of your release." The girl looked surprised, her smile cautiously happy, but Christine remained somber. "Make no mistake, Jolene, I haven't forgotten our former words, when I brought your meal to you that first day." Ever since that morning, neither of them initiated conversation, Christine hurrying in and out to bring the girl her food and collect the old tray. "Should I meet with success I want it understood that _I_ _am_ the Phantom's wife. And I'll not tolerate any threats or innuendos of your plans to replace me."

At first Christine had been stunned that the girl would speak so boldly to her face, then livid that she thought she had the right - whatever Jolene's hold on the Phantom. On the second day, keen anger gave way to reluctant compassion when she thought about all of what the maid suffered in her approximate sixteen years, the horrors she had faced, with only her master to show any consideration. Christine had suffered similar abuse one foul morning, to a far lesser degree. She couldn't fathom how Jolene had stayed sane to undergo such treatment for years. The Phantom had been to her a savior, and Christine could begin to grasp why the girl thought of him as her property, feeling threatened to lose him. All of this she thought she now understood - but that didn't mean she had to like it, and she certainly didn't relay her change of heart.

"My plans for my life, whether I stay or go or when I do, are no concern of yours," she continued in a quiet, brusque tone. "Do not again interfere. And one last thing: Whatever…contact you share with the Maestro in the future you are to keep to yourself. I have no wish to hear about any of it."

Christine said the last with a bitter taste in her mouth, recalling the Phantom's taunts of four nights ago, certain he would do as he pleased. While she may be his wife according to a legal document, Christine felt she didn't hold the right to warn the girl away from him as she would have preferred, and that it would be useless in any case.

"Are we clear on this, Jolene?

The young maid appeared confused but nodded. "Oui…Madame," she added the title somewhat dismally. "I'm not sure why you brought my brother to visit, not after all I've said. And done." A tinge of rose colored her skin. Perhaps the girl wasn't so brazen to realize when she had acted too boldly. "But, _merci_. I thank you."

"I did it for Jacques." Christine's voice softened as she glanced at the boy, whose back was still to her as he played with his soldiers. "However, you must now say your goodbyes. We dare no longer stay."

Christine watched Jolene make eye contact with the child and do as told. Jacques furiously shook his head no.

"Tell him that you'll see him again soon."

Jolene did, and after some cajoling on her part, Jacques at last gave a defeated nod. The two siblings shared a heartfelt hug then Christine led him away by the hand and out the door, which she barred. She turned to go, surprised when the boy clutched her hard around the waist in a grateful hug. Smiling faintly, glad she could have given him this small bit of happiness, she smoothed his hair, then gently pushed him away.

"We must keep this a secret," she stressed, putting a finger to her lips.

The boy solemnly nodded, then took her free hand in his for the walk back to the lair. An unequivocal change from the lad who peevishly stalked in her shadow earlier. Christine smiled at this second triumph.

Once they entered the main room, he stopped and looked up at her.

"Go play," she told him, grateful to find the chamber empty.

He smiled and ran up the stairs into the Phantom's bedchamber, in all likelihood back to the interior lake or to his own room.

With her torch still in hand, Christine hurried to replace it in its holder, almost dropping it to the stones when the Phantom emerged from the area where Jacques had just disappeared.

x

The Phantom gave Christine a steady glance. He looked toward the torch she held, then brought his attention back to her face.

"I can explain," she said, cursing the tremor in her voice. "I was with the boy. In the tunnels. Not the dark ones," she hurried to say when he narrowed his eyes.

"The ones lit by torches?" he asked evenly, again pointedly looking at hers.

"Y-yes. I wanted to be sure to have light." She realized that she must sound like the village idiot and hurried to explain, "One of the torches gave out in the passageway when I was returning to my chamber the other night, and I didn't wish a repeat of that darkness. I detest the darkness, as you no doubt will recall after my first night in your caves."

The warmth of nervous embarrassment rushed to her face when at once she remembered falling into a swoon in his arms in the pathos of her terrifying encounter in the bath chamber.

"I see."

He took the stairs down. She thought her heart might fail when he stopped before her. His eyes searched hers before he took the torch from her trembling hand and strode toward its empty holder. That he went directly to the spot and didn't have to search it out made her realize he must have returned earlier and noticed the torch missing…as well as her absence from the main chamber.

He was infuriatingly calm, which only served to agitate her nerves until she felt she might snap in two. "Yes, well, I suppose I should prepare something for supper before the hour grows too late."

If he wasn't going to inquire as to her earlier whereabouts, she certainly wasn't going to tell him! Though, as she mulled it over, he likely thought her to have been keeping time in her chamber, and in principle it was true. She _had_ spent most of the past hour there.

Now certain that's what he must think, and feeling as relieved as a doomed prisoner who'd just escaped the hangman's noose through an act of unexpected fortune, Christine hurried to the table and the large crate on top. She looked inside, her eyes widening at the bounty. And was that…

"A goose?" she breathed in shock, picking it up by its scrawny legs and staring at the plump, feathered carcass.

"Have you experience in preparing one?"

"Once. With Berta's help." She had plucked the feathers and watched Berta clean, stuff and baste last year's Christmas goose, then bake it and prepare the sauce. Surely Christine could manage the task on her own. She peered into the crate a second time, withdrawing a canvas sack. Upon untying the string, she found the pouch filled with raisins. Another one held currants, yet another, almonds. She withdrew a pint of milk and looked up at him, her mouth parted in dawning shock…

"For a plum pudding. You mentioned that in Christmases past it was the treat you most enjoyed." He cleared his throat gruffly. "You'll also find the makings for a mince pie."

Speechless, she continued to stare. She had told him that some of her favorite occasions with her father had been their festive Christmas dinners, detailing what delights Berta had baked. She once even mentioned Erik, though briefly, and to her relief the Phantom had not grown angry at the slip.

He approached, his brows drawn together. "Is it not to your liking?"

"No, that's not it," she said faintly. "I approve. It's just so…unexpected."

"I'm not one to honor the holiday festivities, but we must eat and it will be a welcome change to try something different. If you feel you're up to the task?"

His lips quirked in a wry half grin and her good humor returned.

"Most certainly, monsieur. Though I fear I'll need to spend all day in the kitchen tomorrow to prepare."

"You have come far in your vocal training. I will make an exception and excuse you from the day's practice this once."

She smiled as she noted boughs of evergreen lining the sides at the bottom. So he was not one to maintain traditions, was he…?

"This ought to make an interesting appetizer…" She held up a branch as long as her arm. "Or did you mean it for an herb to flavor the goose?"

His lips twisted in a half smile. "A bit of greenery wouldn't hurt to liven up this tomb of stone. Cease your mockery, woman, and prepare tonight's dinner. A light repast of bread and cheese will suffice. I'll put the remainder of provisions away."

Lighthearted, Christine withdrew a block of cheese and a loaf of rye, humming while she cut them into slices. Her attention lifted to the shore, where the Phantom carried the wooden crate, his strength evident. She watched as he went through the process of securing the food beneath the lake. His lack of a waistcoat brought into focus the glimpse of muscle in his back and legs as he worked, and she stopped slicing, went silent and boldly stared, thankful he had no knowledge that she did. Exactly like one other time she had dared to watch, when he had not been wearing one stitch of those fine garments…

Her face heated with the scandalous memory, and quickly she resumed her light task, then went in search of Jacques. Usually the boy ate before they did - in weeks past, taking his meals with his sister - in keeping with Jolene's custom of putting the child to bed early and giving them the chamber free to practice. But the hour had grown late to apply any such rule.

Once the three sat at the table and ate, Christine had the oddest sense of family overtake her. A foolish notion, and she shook it away, blinking back the inexplicable moisture that rimmed her eyes. She would one day leave this place and go back to the world above. Of sun and air and freedom. She could not let herself become attached to the dream of again belonging to a family. Especially not to this one. Everyone she loved was dead and forever lost to her. She was the Phantom's wife in name alone, and certainly not dear to him. Nor was he to her. But she could imagine his displeasure if he was to learn how fond she had grown of the boy.

Thinking it would benefit her to speak with Jacques present - for she hoped that the Phantom would contain any excessive rage in the child's presence - she nervously cleared her throat.

"My father had a custom at the Yuletide, one that I greatly admired. He dismissed all debts owed to him, forgiving any grievances against those with whom he held aught…"

The Phantom held aloft his slice of bread, stopping in the process of bringing it to his mouth, and stared at it grimly, as if knowing what she would say next. Christine spoke in a rush before she lost all courage.

"I was thinking it would be a lovely gift for Jacques if you should release his sister. Two hands in the kitchen will also help matters, as I've had little experience with cooking a Christmas goose - though I'm sure I can do it," she added hastily as his golden eyes flicked up to meet hers. She swallowed hard, feeling a bit faint with how intently he stared. "But it would be ever so much more … advantageous to have Jolene's help."

"More advantageous than slinking through dimly lit tunnels with the boy for clandestine meetings?"

Christine balled her hands into fists in her lap. She felt the nervous warmth of scarlet flood her face. "You knew?" she managed to say when she could speak.

"I'm no fool, Madame. You don't cover your tracks well."

She silently agreed with his genius arrogance and cursed her rash ineptness. Had she truly thought to keep anything hidden from the great Phantom of the Opera? She watched as he took a sip of his wine.

"And you're not angry?" she dared to ask in the ensuing silence, surprised that she'd not yet become the recipient of a host of cutting words and dark threats.

"I suspected that you might behave recklessly. It's in your nature. I'm not surprised."

She felt a twinge of indignation, though she could hardly refute what he said. However much she had improved over the last four years, she still often spoke or acted before she thought. She dared to press her luck.

"Won't you at least consider releasing her? As you can see, Jacques is more well behaved than he's been these last few days. It did him a world of good to see his sister -"

"Madame," he interrupted pleasantly while setting down his goblet. His eyes were twin flames behind the mask. "I would advise you not to test my patience. This one indiscretion I will overlook. Let us leave it at that. I'm not as likely to ignore a second occurrence."

With an inward sigh of relief that he was willing to forget and regret that she had not succeeded to sway him, Christine nodded acquiescence and concentrated on her meal. The boy finished and the Phantom stood, bringing her surprised attention his way.

"I will put Jacques to bed and clean up. You should also retire, since you said that you'll need most of tomorrow to prepare dinner."

Cheered anew by the prospect of the festive meal ahead and a bit stunned by his desire to aid her so that she could indulge in an early night, she wondered if by chance a smidgeon of the spirit of the season might be rubbing off on the grim ruler of these eternal caverns who claimed to shun such beloved traditions.

Chuckling to herself, she smiled.

One could only hope.

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: Yes, I kept the chapter ending light- I'm just full of the holiday spirit, what can I say? lol Enjoy the lack of cliffies while they last. ;-) …I can't promise it, but I'm really striving to have one more chapter up before Christmas, or New Year's anyway, (within the Christmas season), and I'm also working on the other two stories, hoping to get a chapter of each up soon, though how soon, I don't know at this point. With that said, in case I don't make it by the 25th with this one - Merry Christmas to all of you who celebrate it, my phriends! :)**


	45. Chapter 45

**A/N: Thank you for the lovely reviews! :) Sorry this took longer to get up than I aimed for…but without further ado, here it is-**

* * *

**Chapter XLV**

.

Christine woke with the same expectation as when she'd gone to bed. Christmas Day! And the Phantom had actually given his permission to skip practice so that she could prepare a special dinner. Last night he had not rebuked her for taking Jacques to visit his sister. Would marvels never cease?

Momentarily she wavered, uncertain if she possessed the skill to undertake such a monumental task alone. After being a bit of a braggart to him - what possessed her to do so, she could not imagine - this meal must equate excellence, if for no other reason than to salvage her pride. Recalling his rare praise of her vocal abilities, she certainly expected no commendation for her cooking, even should it rival the king's fare. But it was important to her to try. She assumed her desire that he find pleasure in the meal stemmed from a wish for acceptance - to be treated as a capable individual with talents other than those found in her voice.

Christine selected a simple dress in design to wear, a magenta silk with wide pagoda sleeves and minimal edging in taupe filigree lace, then tied her hair back with a black velvet ribbon. Out of habit, she reached for the scrap of cloth beneath her pillow, tracing it with her fingertips. Today would be most difficult, Christmases shared betwixt them holding numerous fond memories. Erik had been a veritable bundle of gloom on the holidays, but especially at the Yuletide she made it her goal to spread cheer and elicit his smile. Most of the time she succeeded and often suspected his surly attitude all a sham, that deep down he had enjoyed sharing the season with her as much as she did with him.

How strange that she now wished to do the same for the man who abducted her in a perverse variation of his own Don Juan…

Once more she reminded herself that those days with Erik were ended but never lost, safely tucked away inside the deep pockets of her heart. She'd been given a new life, one she did not ask for but must accept, and with a reflective sigh, she quit her chamber and set her mind on the task ahead.

The main lake room was darker than usual and empty, with few candelabras lit. She wondered if she again arrived too early. Taking a lit candle from its holder, she set flame to the candles in the kitchen, also lighting a torch in its sconce.

The chamber was eerily quiet, the sluggish lap of the lake all that broke the silence. Looking toward the ethereal pale mist, she shivered at the thought of ghosts and trolls and ogres, and brought as much light as she could to her corner. Such gothic horrors did not belong to this celebratory day, and she determined to block those frightful images from her mind. Hopefully the true "ghost" of these caverns remained in as genial a mood as he was last night…

Or was it still night?

Curiously, she glanced toward the staircase that led to his chamber for what must be the fifth time. The pull to investigate grew until she could no longer resist. As quietly as possible Christine crept to the second landing. Her heart pounded so hard she imagined she could hear its reverberations. Her mouth went dry and she hesitated on the top step.

Did she dare…?

She shouldn't do this.

Was he inside…?

She should retrace her steps to the kitchen. If he was in bed, surely he wasn't wearing a mask.

The realization intrigued her rather than providing the deterrent needed. She was more than a little curious to see the man who held her prisoner, saved her from death more than once, and married her in a detached pact of one-sided convenience. The memory of his dire threat and what he would do to her if she should ever again attempt to rid him of his mask gave her pause - but then, it wouldn't be her fault if she should happen to glimpse his face while he was without the covering, would it? If he should awaken, she could offer the excuse that she was on her way to the boy's room…

Warmth rushed to her face at another thought.

What if he was indecent?

She had seen him as nature clothed him. Once. At a distance and in shadows, but she had defied stiff prudence and not looked away, more curiously fascinated than overly self-conscious. In all likelihood he wore a nightshirt, unless he was impervious to the icy chill, but even if he did not, his form would be concealed by bedding. His face, however, would not…

The memory of her success in hiding her presence from him on that moonlit night whetted her desire to see his features - in slumber, when vulnerability painted a softer image. Rage would not be there to mar her first true glimpse of him because he would never know she was there. Only a peek and she would leave before he could awaken. The desire to have her curiosity satisfied increased until retreat no longer presented an option.

Using every caution, she slipped around the corner into his bedchamber.

The room lay in thick darkness, the circle of her weak flame unable to shed enough light to reach the heavy velvet bed curtains. Her heart resumed its heavy throbbing as she moved toward the bed and put her hand to the partition, took a faint breath, then slowly nudged aside the drape.

The interior was too dark to see, and she had a dim impression of a coverlet draped over a form. She craned her neck, bringing forth the candle for illumination, and peered closer.

"Why are you here?"

Christine swung around, startled at the unexpectedness of his deep, clipped words coming from behind. Her abrupt motion extinguished the flame, though somehow she managed to keep hold of the candlestick. Pitch blackness enveloped them, and she fought down instant terror to be absent of all light, not to mention caught by the Phantom. The only saving grace was that in such darkness she could not witness the fury that made up his expression.

Silence thickened until she could stand it no longer. "I heard a noise." She justified that a small white lie might smooth the path and make the day tolerable whereas the truth would destroy any civility she hoped to regain. "The cat, I think." When he gave no response, she needlessly added, "Mozart…"

A burst of light ignited from a corner of the room and she sucked in a breath, turning in surprise toward the steady flame of the candle he'd lit. How had he moved so silently and assuredly in the dark?

"And you thought to find Faust in my bed," he dryly finished her explanation.

It did sound foolish that she would investigate within the closed curtains of _his_ _bed_, but she had dug her way into this pit of a lie and must see it through. "Yes, that's where the sounds came from."

"Sounds?"

"Mozart was wailing. I thought he might be hurt."

"Wailing?"

She drew herself up at the wry suspicion in his tone.

"Yes, _wailing_."

"I see."

Those two words held a wealth of hidden meaning, more than she was willing to uncover at the moment.

Before she could attempt to extricate herself in some sort of graceful exit, he moved toward the curtains and flung one aside. The fasteners screeched on the metal rung in protest.

"The wailing cat is not here."

"Well, no, of course not. Not _now_," she said in haste, backing to the entrance. "Likely he scampered away from all the ruckus." She put her wick to the flame he just lit. "I must begin the meal, or we'll be eating at midnight."

"Madame," he said before she could fully execute her escape.

Slowly she faced him.

"I covet my privacy, just as you do. Never again investigate where you have no right."

"I told you, the cat -"

"Wailed." He covered the distance between them and she held her breath. "Did you hope to catch me unaware?" His voice was a whisper of a silken threat. "Perhaps without my mask?"

"I wasn't thinking." She found it difficult to reason, much less breathe, when he stood so close. Damn his genius, she should have guessed he would perceive the truth. "I thought you were up and about - and you were, weren't you? I just, I assure you, I won't make the same mistake twice."

"See that you don't. You wouldn't care for what happens as a result of such an ill-conceived lapse in judgment."

In the dim light, his eyes held hers with controlled fire. Something other than anger flickered in their golden depths - dread? remorse? determination? - but he pivoted and left the chamber before she could define its source.

Christine waited a moment to catch her faltering breath, then also left, hurrying past where the Phantom took a seat at the organ and making a direct line for the kitchen without once looking his way.

She had been a fool to thwart his orders and remembered his threat of indefinitely closing her off in a chamber devoid of all light. This past week in his company, sharing their meals, she had grown somewhat comfortable and lax in her judgment. Like Pandora, Christine wished to unleash the forbidden mysteries that beguiled her. Unlike the misfortunate Grecian, she had been saved from committing the dangerous blunder and enduring the Phantom's frightening punishment.

She would _not_ make the same mistake again.

Quickly she tied on a full apron and retrieved the items needed in three trips, spreading them on the table. She lit the fires in oven and stove, readied ingredients for the pudding, then sat down to prepare the goose.

On occasion she felt the Phantom's eyes turn her way and watch, though not once did she meet his gaze. She still felt rattled that he caught her spying.

She had never been a good liar, not like Erik, who always endeavored to deceive those in authority when trouble came their way for a misdeed done. He had often taken the fall for her misbehavior, and Christine was horrified the first time he owned to a childhood offense she committed. Later, he told her that old Joseph's beatings were feeble compared to the gypsy's strong lashes, and to be shut up in the stable, alone, was a luxury compared to being locked in a cage with a constant parade of strangers that mocked and threw things at him. She wasn't sure she entirely believed his claims, but it had been the first of rare moments when she learned of the troubles he once lived as a small lad. Erik told her that his true punishment would have been for her to become the recipient of the leather strap or that her intense fear of darkness be realized in the closed stable. Of course, several times when they had not managed to escape to the moors, both were punished. But they had been together, and afterward he had held her…

Christine looked toward the Phantom. Typically rigid in stature yet elegant in grace, his form was now slouched over, his elbows propped on the organ's glossy black surface, his head held in his hands. She wondered with a shock what caused such a change. Sensing her stare, he straightened and turned his head to look. A pronounced shine was in his eyes, catching the light of the candles, though his expression was composed.

"Monsieur?" she whispered so softly she could barely hear herself.

He opened his mouth to speak then shook his head. His clear distress over whatever mystery ailed him brought a twinge to Christine's heart, surprising her that she should feel sorrow for his pain…

The Phantom stared at his protégé, the only woman who held the power to destroy him and lay waste his plans, as indifferently as she plucked the feathers off the goose, as slyly as she had tried to pluck away the masquerade which kept him protected. And God help him, despite her duplicity, he still wanted her. Still desired her with every wretched breath that kept his lifeless heart in a state of beating, though it seemed an eternity since he felt alive.

Like it or not, Christine was vital to his existence, a part of what composed his blood and soul. In these four endless years, no matter his struggle to forget, nothing had changed…

Though it took only one brief, excruciating moment to end all he hoped would ever be.

He still heard the taunts of the murderous scum who would have finished him off and left, thinking he had. The vicious words echoed inside his mind, constant reminders of Christine's brutal deceit. Barbs of cutting truth that a beast could never hope to possess such a beauty. Other cries from those whose lives he mangled, pathetic wretches slain in Persia, fused with those taunts and proved them true.

In angry disgust, he returned his attention to his notes. He could not allow her curiosity, which had never waned, to best him. If she learned the truth, all would be ruined…

_Var hälsad, sköna morgonstund  
som av profeters helga mund  
är oss bebådad vorden!  
_

At the sudden sweet sound of Christine singing a carol beloved to her from her parents' homeland, the Phantom began to relax, his anguish for the moment eased. Her angelic voice never failed to soothe his tormented spirit.

_Du stora dag, du sälla dag,  
på vilken himlens välbehag  
ännu besöker jorden.  
_

At the sudden beautiful melody of the Phantom accompanying her on his pipe organ, Christine stopped in surprise.

"How…?"

"I'm a composer." He forestalled her question of how he would know the Swedish tune, not wishing to initiate another interrogation into his identity. "Composers know many songs. Do you wish to proceed?"

She nodded and continued the sacred carol her father had taught her, and the Phantom played on.

_Unga sjunga med de gamla,  
sig församla jordens böner  
kring den störste av dess söner._

Four more stanzas, and Jacques appeared. Christine greeted the boy with a hug then set him to work plucking out feathers. When she again looked up, the Phantom had gone.

.

**xXx**

.

Arabella hurriedly dressed and left her bedchamber to wait in the sitting room she and Raoul shared. Within minutes he left his room, the presence of his cloak over his arm making her frown. If he thought he would sneak out and treat this day like any other, he was sorely mistaken.

"Raoul," she said as she watched him fiddle with one sleeve. "You're not actually going out again this morning, are you?"

Noting her presence for the first time, he glanced up then down again. "Blast, should have brought my valet. These cuff links will be the death of me."

Arabella sighed and moved to take his exposed sleeve, better securing the gold clasp bearing the de Chagny crest. "You'll need new ones, the point is wearing thin." He muttered his thanks and made as if to move away, but she kept firm hold of his hand. He looked at her in surprise.

"Have you forgotten the day?"

He looked somewhat confused before his brow cleared. "I would deduce from your behavior it must be Christmas?"

"Yes, though the gargantuan tree placed in the foyer last evening didn't produce even a hint of a clue?"

"I confess, I've been rather caught up in the hunt for Christine."

Arabella hesitated on whether to speak. Ever since she arrived at the astounding conclusion that the notorious Phantom and Christine's Erik were one and the same, she spent the days rejecting the bizarre theory, then at the next turn, believing it must be true. She had come to no absolute judgment, but if indeed Christine had her lover back she was certainly in no danger.

The one time Arabella had seen the young man, he defied all who lived at The Grange to find and be with Christine then left her there against his own desires, to receive a physician's care. Twice more he was seen on the grounds, peering into windows and spying on Christine - even coming to the door - but the doctor had said to keep his patient calm, and Raoul ordered Arabella not to speak of Erik's presence if Christine should ask. That had been nearly four years ago, and she never felt right about withholding such information from her friend, even if it had been in what she falsely assumed her best interest. No one could have known at the time that Erik would be presumed dead little more than a day after Christine's return to The Heights. In Christine's effusive praise and desire to talk endlessly of him that one night after their return from France, Arabella had seen just how deeply Christine cared for the young man, causing guilt to settle like a rock in her chest.

She would not fail her again.

Madame was not the least bit worried, and now Meg adopted that attitude. Christine had sounded content, and "the Phantom" assured her return…

"Arabella?" Raoul drew her out of somber contemplation. "You wish to discuss something? I really must be going."

"No, you must not. For Heaven's sake, Raoul, it's Christmas Day!"

"I'll return this afternoon. I arranged to meet with a man who has blueprints of the opera house. That monster must live somewhere beneath Paris, and by jove, I'll find a way into his hideout."

No, he would never understand what Arabella assumed to be true.

"Raoul - sit down. There's something I must tell you. I would have told you last night, but I was bone weary and unable to wait up…"

He drew his brows together in confusion but did as asked and nodded for her to go on.

She hated to lie when in a pickle and had shirked the shameful habit after she left the ladies academy. But he left her no alternative, and she didn't have the strength to tie him to the chair to listen, much less comprehend, nor the ropes to do it.

"I visited the Opera House yesterday and spoke with Madame Giry."

His brows lifted in surprise. "Oh?"

"Yes, and I managed to persuade her to tell me more. You see..." She took a deep breath, delving into the fabrication she earlier created. "Christine isn't missing as we thought. She's hiding."

"Hiding?" He slapped his palm to the chair arm. "What the devil are you talking about, Arabella?"

"She was almost discovered - by a man who knew her father. She told Madame of her situation, and knowing Christine is a friend of ours, Madame helped her find a place to stay until it's again safe. She's actually in training…"

Arabella cleared her throat, wondering if it was a greater sin to deceive on a holy day. Had she still believed in Father Christmas, she would surely get a lump of coal in her stocking. Though as cold as the day had dawned that might prove beneficial.

"It seems that she did have a private audition. Those who heard were amazed by her voice. Madame arranged for lessons with a private tutor to prepare her for the next opera."

"And what of this Phantom we are told took her?" he asked suspiciously.

"Raoul, really." She gave a little laugh. "A ghost that abducted a mysterious young woman, newly arrived, is far more exciting a tale than Christine leaving on her own initiative in the night. Madame Giry couldn't very well tell the true reason, and the corps de ballet took it into their own heads to provide one suitable for the theater." She borrowed the explanation Madame had given.

"Why did Madame Giry not share the information with us? She knew that we helped Christine get to France."

"That, I cannot say. She didn't tell me." She felt Madame was shrewd enough to cover for Arabella and embellish the lie if needed.

"I must speak to her."

"Of course, but _not_ today." Arabella blocked his exit, ready to place her palms to his shoulders and try to hold him down if she must. "Wait until the festivities are done. The point is, Christine is in no danger."

He gave a grudging nod, clearly undecided.

"Let them enjoy their Yuletide celebration," she persuaded. "You can wait one day. And perhaps we might take a page from their ledger and do the same."

A grin teased his lips. "You sound as excited as a child."

"Hmph. By your standards, it is considered infantile to wish to indulge in the Yuletide?"

"No, of course not. But you take it to extremes."

She paid his little taunt no heed. "I hear they're serving in the dining room," she suggested hopefully.

"Next you'll be begging me for a sleigh ride as you did your first Christmas at The Grange."

She smiled sweetly. "If there was enough snow on the ground, perhaps. However, Christmas dinner will suffice for now."

He chuckled and mused over the matter. "Very well. Put on your prettiest frock and I'll take you to the dining hall. Good God, but it's cold in this room." He just seemed to notice the frigid air and looked at the bleak hearth. "The maid hasn't been in to light the fire?"

"Perhaps she has the day off."

"Even if that were so, the hotel establishment wouldn't put their guests in a position to fend for themselves. For what I'm paying, that better bloody well be the case, though if I had the wood or coal at hand I'd make the wretched fire myself."

"I imagine she's only running late."

At least Arabella hoped that was the case and their inhibited young maid hadn't found herself on the wrong side of a cupboard door, as had been her excuse last time.

.

**xXx**

.

With the goose almost fully plucked, Christine let out a relieved breath. The boy had taken to playing with the discarded white feathers, blowing them from his hand and eagerly watching them float to the surface of the lake. He broke into a giddy smile and ran toward the entrance leading to her room. She turned her head to look.

With mingled feelings of relief and regret, she watched the Phantom enter followed by Jolene. This was what she wanted, what she asked for, and she would not think of what went on before. She smiled at the girl, perhaps not as warmly as in weeks preceding, but still genuinely glad to see her free.

"Happy Christmas, Jolene."

The girl met her eyes while in the clasp of her brother's exuberant hug. Christine envied the maid, all her own loved ones dead, but it was still gratifying to see brother and sister reunited.

"Happy Christmas - or, as we say in France - Joyeux Noël." Jolene's words were tentative, her manner uncertain as to how she would be received." She approached the table with the boy. "How may I help?"

Glad for another pair of hands, Christine put the girl to work. Jacques again busied himself with blowing feathers, until the table was surrounded with them and Jolene motioned for him to sweep them from the stones. With a pout of dissatisfaction, he did, dumping them in a discarded box, likely as toys to play with later. The Phantom distanced himself from all of it, though he occasionally glanced in their direction.

When the time came to stir the pudding, her past successes emboldened her, and Christine approached him where he sat at his organ in deep concentration, jotting notes on vellum. She touched his shoulder to gain his attention. He turned, instantly drawing back from the contact. With a small frown, she dropped her hand back to her side.

"My apologies for disturbing you. In my household, we had a tradition. Each member took a turn giving the pudding a stir while making a wish."

"That seems rather foolish."

She bristled at his disdain. "To you, perhaps. But it's a long-held custom, all throughout England."

"And now you live in France."

"I take it you do not wish for a turn then?"

"Empty wishes never brought me anything I wanted. Why should I engage in such a vain practice?"

"Very well." She moved to go then hesitated. "I don't suppose you have any trinkets I could stir in?"

"Trinkets?"

"Coins. A thimble. Something small. Silver preferably." She recalled the tokens Berta stirred in as a surprise to the bearer who received a bit of silver in his portion. A thimble for thrift. A coin for wealth. A tiny anchor for safe harbor…though at such short notice, coins were likely all that was available.

"For the pudding?" he mused.

"It's part of the tradition. I thought Jacques might enjoy receiving a treat all his own."

"I have something to give him."

At her clear astonishment, he crossed his arms over his chest.

"Is that such a surprise?"

She supposed it wasn't, since Jacques was his son, but sensed he wasn't as immune to the festivities as he insisted.

"Dinner won't be for some time. I must tie the pudding in a cloth and set it to boil for several hours while the goose roasts."

"I'm in no hurry."

"Well then." She lingered, not really sure why, before moving back to her preparations.

Jolene had shed every bit of her unease and was in a talkative mood, speaking of Christmases past. Christine reasoned that a week in a chamber alone had made the girl into a magpie of vocabulary, not that she minded. She preferred that to long gaps of uneasy quiet often experienced with the Phantom.

As Christine gathered ingredients for a mince pie, she watched the Phantom gift Jacques with a small knife, sitting beside him on the shore with a block of wood and showing him how to whittle. Her first concern eased - that the boy was too young for such a dangerous tool and might cut off a finger - when she noted how strong and steady his hands were. Like his father he seemed to possess the inborn skill to wield a blade, and her heart beat a little faster at the easy smile the Phantom gave Jacques in praise for an instruction accomplished. It made him seem far less formidable, almost boyish, and suddenly she wished she could be the one to make him smile like that. Sure the heat of the kitchen had temporarily caused her to take leave of her senses, she forced her concentration back to her task.

The hours fell away, at times accompanied by the Phantom's beautiful music, and at last the meal was laid. The aromas were delightful, but anxiously Christine waited for his reaction before taking a bite from her plate. He had exchanged his usual mask for his dinner mask, his mouth easier to see, and she felt a little jolt of relief to see his lips tilt up at the corners. She held her breath until at last he looked at her, as if realizing she waited for him to speak.

"My compliments. You have done well."

His words were gold, a gift to receive, and she returned his smile.

Eagerly they dined, and Jacques dug into his portions as she'd never seen him do before. Once the desserts were served, he gave something of a squeal, and startled Christine looked toward him. With an elated smile Jacques held up a silver coin…that he'd just unearthed from his plum pudding.

Surprised, Christine swung her attention to the Phantom. His expression gave nothing away. He had not once gone near the bowl while they stirred, had not even approached the kitchen. His eyes flicked to hers and he read her baffled expression.

"Magic."

Her heart gave a little thump. Even that one low word he made sound mysterious and sensual, bringing shivers along her skin.

"Will you…" Jolene seemed hesitant to speak, "Will you tell me of Christmas in England? I've only ever been in France."

The request took Christine by surprise, and she looked at the Phantom to observe his reaction. His attention on his meal, he continued to eat his mince pie as though he'd not heard the maid. Tentatively Christine touched the subject of past gatherings, becoming bolder when he did not order her to stop. Before she knew it, she spoke of Erik.

"Then…Erik was part of your family?" Jolene sounded confused. Small wonder with what she had unearthed about Christine's most treasured secret.

"Something like that." Christine fiddled with her fork. The Phantom concentrated on his food, what little she could see of his expression unreadable. "My father took him in when I was very young. We grew up together."

"Like brother and sister?" she sounded surprised. "He was adopted?"

"Not exactly." Christine fidgeted in her chair, darting another careful glance to the Phantom who had yet to pay her heed. "My father was his guardian until he died, when I was twelve."

"Erik was your playmate then?"

"He was." Her voice grew still with the memories.

"So you grew up together," she said in a wondering way. "How long's it been since you last saw him?"

"More than four years."

"And you've not heard from him since?"

"Jolene," the Phantom's voice came quiet but equipped with a blade of caution. "You should put Jacques to bed now. It's later than usual."

"The dishes -"

"Can be washed upon your return."

She hesitated. "Will you take me back to my cell afterward? I mean…" she nervously cupped her hands in her skirts, "It's much colder there, and I'd like another blanket…"

The Phantom's eyes remained on the candelabrum, where they'd been for the last few minutes. Its cheery glow seemed misplaced with the inner chill that penetrated the gathering since Christine first spoke.

"Your punishment is at an end. You may return to your room tonight."

Relief eased the girl's taut features. "Merci, monsieur."

His eyes flashed to hers. "I presume we are clear on what will happen if you betray the location of my lair to anyone again? There will be no cell. You will find yourself without a home, with only the clothes on your back - and absent of your brother's company."

"I-I understand. Happy Christmas." She awkwardly rose, taking the boy by the hand and leading him away. Oblivious to all that occurred, Jacques remained cheerful, eager to be with his sister.

A veil of static silence settled after the pair disappeared to the back chambers.

"Tell me more…of this _Erik_."

The Phantom's low words came as if compelled from the depths of his soul, the name uttered like a curse, and Christine looked up in shock. His eyes burned into her, full of a brewing fire she didn't understand, his jaw carved in stone. He despised it when she spoke of Erik, had expressly forbidden it, and evidently she'd been correct that he was displeased by her visiting old memories aloud. Jolene's curiosity had frustrated him - and now he wished to know more?

Was this a trap designed to cause her torment?

"I would rather not," Christine said defensively, loath to subject herself to the sting of his tongue at the conclusion of such a festive day.

"You had no reservations to discuss the boy with Jolene. Why do you not wish to speak of him now?"

His manner was deceptively calm, the angry suspicion a deadly poison laced in the undercurrent of his tone.

She tightened her hold around the stem of her goblet. "I've said all I wish to say on the subject."

"He came to your home and became a playmate. You grew up together. Was he anything more…?"

She gritted her teeth in silence.

"Was he. Anything. More." At her continued refusal to respond, he slammed his hand on the table and pushed back his chair, jumping to his feet. "**_Tell me, damn you!_**"

She glared at him, unafraid, as apprehension to say too much gave way to scorn for his tyrannical behavior. "We were one another's confidantes. There was nothing we kept from one another and nothing we wouldn't share."

He narrowed his eyes behind the mask. "Meaning?"

She rose and faced him across the dubious barrier of the table. "Meaning exactly what I said - _nothing_." She held to the edge of the table to maintain balance while her bones seemed to melt from the intense flame of his eyes.

"He was nothing to you then?" he wryly suggested.

Her laugh was brittle. "As usual, you think the worst. But do not worry, monsieur. You have no reason to fear him coming to look for me as the Vicomte did. Erik is dead. He is **_dead_**, do you hear? And I wish never to speak of him again. At least grant me that one courtesy."

It was the first time Christine had ever made the words audible. After having long accepted their truth, she didn't expect such gut-wrenching pain, as if her scarred heart had again been bludgeoned with her tight admission. She relied on every bit of inner strength to remain impassive and not break beneath the weight of his intrusive gaze. Somehow, she managed to curb her rising tears.

A gleam in his eyes like pained remorse made her inhale a soft, confused breath, but he turned his head before she could be certain of its existence.

"If- if there is nothing else, I must put the food away," she whispered.

He curtly nodded. "Then you may retire for the night. Jolene can take care of the rest. I expect you here early to resume your training." He pivoted on his heel and headed for his organ.

Christine made quick work of putting the remainder of the food in the cold box then hastened to her chamber. Oddly the tears she had earlier quenched made no reappearance, the ache of losing Erik tangible but not fierce as in months past.

She readied for bed and pulled Mozart on her lap. Idly she stroked his sleek fur and looked about the room. A thin rectangular box wrapped in red ribbon and parcel paper caught her eye.

Curious, she released the cat, which instantly made a bed at the foot hers, and collected the mysterious package. Slipping off bow and paper, she removed the lid, her eyes going wide at the simple elegance of the emerald pendant nestled within. A thought made her uncomfortably warm - had he delivered the box while she'd been in the bath chamber, or had it been there all along? Moving aside the delicate chain of gold links, she withdrew a handwritten note on a snippet of stiff parchment.

_A diva customarily drips with jewels when on display before her public. It is a sign of distinction. Consider this gift an accoutrement to that._

The note was unsigned but had no reason to be. She knew the giver, both husband and teacher, and therefore his prerogative to present her with expensive trinkets and her obligation to receive them. Still, she wished the cold, stiff words held a trace of sentiment and that he'd given her the pendant with no strings of duty to goad him.

Foolish, and she had no idea why the lovely token of a diva's lot should make her heart ache more deeply than the memory of Erik heartfelt gifts…

Tracing her finger along the beveled oval, Christine recalled what she learned of the emerald during her travels and how the gem was purported to bring healing to the bearer. With all she had suffered in her short lifetime, she would need a garment composed of them.

Lying down to sleep, she found her mind to be her accuser. She had only wished to bring a sense of goodwill and instead left them both in a wretched state. Perhaps she should have kept the peace and answered his questions about Erik, as she had done for Jolene…

But to tell of how dearly she once loved another man, a gypsy, who others considered beneath her class could have brought nothing but further heartache, in all likelihood the Phantom's cutting scorn, and she could not have borne that. Could not listen to him heap insults and ridicule on her poor Erik, as he so often did to everyone else.

Somehow, she would mend the rift she had caused. Before sleep overtook her she realized they would begin work on the final act tomorrow. She would give her utmost to be his despised Aminta and do all he said with regard to his opera, with no further arguments or criticisms. After all, he had given her back the will to sing.

She owed him at least that.

.

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: And so, the tension mounts, growing thicker, but we all know what happens when unexpressed love goes too long buried and passion burns stronger with no outlet - kaboom. ;-)  
**

**Swedish carol Christine sang- translated:**

_**All hail to thee, O blessèd morn!  
To tidings long by prophets borne  
Hast thou fulfillment given.  
O sacred and immortal day,  
When unto earth, in glorious ray,  
Descends the grace of Heaven!  
Singing, ringing, sounds are blending,  
Praises sending unto Heaven  
For the Savior to us given.**_

**Again, many thanks for your interest in this story. Your comments are like gold to me. :)**


	46. Chapter 46

**A/N: Told you I'd have another up soon. ;-) Thank you for the great reviews - I laughed outright, I smiled, I chuckled in a wicked way ;-) - you guys are the best! And now…**

* * *

**XLVI**

.

This time, the Phantom was prepared for her approach and aware of her presence the moment Christine moved through the entrance. He turned from the table, his dining mask firmly in place.

Days had elapsed since the unusual Christmas dinner, and though she had become more cooperative in her practices, the tension remained an impenetrable barrier between them; nor did he wish it away. It was the sole defense he had left. His capricious heart and tormented mind, both steeped in memoirs of the past, had betrayed him with her talk of their holidays spent together - even before that, in these last weeks leading up to the moment when she became his bride. He could no longer rely on blind abhorrence; nor would cold logic aid him in his task. Bitter distance was the only weapon in this silent war he waged, and often of late he had to practice stern diligence and remind himself of his motive to continue. He must continue! There was no other choice, not if he wanted to keep her with him for the remainder of their days, and beyond even that….

"I'm much too early again, aren't I."

When she at last spoke, the question came as a resigned statement. She stood on the threshold, her hands tightly clasped in her skirts. Flushed from her hurried arrival, her hair having slipped from its velvet ribbon, a few tendrils curling damply about her face, she was the picture of dewy freshness and beauty. A willowy fairy creature come to call.

"It is better to be precipitate in timing than to be slothful." His words were curt.

"Of course," she said demurely, casting her eyes down to the stones.

The Phantom huffed an impatient breath, curiously suspicious of her suddenly docile behavior. He looked her up and down from head to toe.

"Well, why do you loiter like a new housemaid at a palace? Come then," he ordered gruffly and moved toward the kettle that was kept warm on the stove.

"Have you been to a palace?" she inquired softly as she joined him.

He gave a brief nod and poured water into a teacup.

"In France?"

"In Persia."

"Oh. That's on the other side of the world, isn't it? Have they truly got housemaids there?"

Her childlike interest always to know more made him smile in spite of his desire to remain aloof, and he pursed his lips to appear unaffected as he sliced a lemon and squeezed half into the fragile cup.

"The shah has servants, but nothing to which you are accustomed. The women are devotedly servile to their masters, doing always as they're told, no matter the instruction given."

"Really."

He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning at the clear aversion in her reply.

"How sad for them."

"Not at all. They consider it a privilege to serve in any capacity required."

"And - did you have your own personal servant? While living there."

He glanced her way to see her frown.

"A few did tend to my needs."

He knew what she meant by the stilted way she spoke, erroneously thinking him some desired Don Juan, and kept silent that he'd been greatly feared in his role to the shah. Especially feared to those servants who had seen beneath the mask - stripped away when he was first punished for his refusal to yield - and later witnessed a demonstration of his power. Word quickly spread of the deformed and scarred magician who dwelled within palace chambers, and superstitious in their beliefs that he must be a demon hiding behind a disguise, no servant woman would sacrifice herself to "tend" him. Not without terror or loathing or under duress of orders, none of which he wanted.

"How fortunate." She sounded disgusted. "Are all the servants women then?"

"There are men at the palace who work as guards unless they hold an official title. The women serve meals and keep things tidy. Trained servants are assigned to those guests highly favored, biddable to perform, shall we say, any private whim desired."

She snorted, her face achieving a rosy hue. "I assume you were one of the favored."

"Of course."

His smile came as mocking as the hostility in her tone. He enjoyed teasing her to observe her curious reactions, but that was not his only motive for such candid accounts. Better to have her detest him and alter the truth where his own requirements had been concerned. The young Persian women had done well to serve him his meals and launder his clothes and bedding, scurrying in and out like frightened mice at the sight of a rabid cat when he was within his appointed rooms.

"So I gather the women at the palace are nothing like the servants here?"

"No, neither in manner nor in dress. They clothe themselves from head to foot in colored veils of diaphanous silk - not in those hideous black dresses and coarse wool stockings that you were made to wear while working at the opera house."

Their fingers brushed as he handed her saucer and cup. A jolt of fierce current swept up his arm and through his blood at the contact, echoed in her gasp, and he jerked his hand back.

Her shock at his forthright and personal observation made her recall how he once removed each article of said clothing from her prone body - and rendered her numb to keep a firm hold on the china.

Both cup and saucer crashed to the stones between them, and hot water splashed the bottom of his trousers and the hem of her dress.

"Oh!" she took an abrupt step back, though with the thick layers of her skirt and petticoats she was not burned.

"Damn!" he expelled the epithet in a harsh breath and bent to retrieve the jagged pieces. She crouched down to help him. Their hands again collided while reaching for the same fragment. Instantly he drew away.

"With your wretched history, you'll cut yourself," he bit out. "Go. Pour yourself another cup. I'll tend to this."

"Alright then."

She sounded put out but did as told. The Phantom closed his eyes and took a calming breath before returning to his task.

Thankfully, the remainder of the day progressed in the orderly fashion that had become common. She sang. He played. They ate their meals and kept their respective distance.

Soon the time came for practice of the final scene. A duet. The duet he had been dreading…

Recalling her fiasco with a similar piece in the attempt to practice solo, it came as no surprise when she failed at this aria, too, without making it past the first stanza.

Heaving a quiet, reconciled breath the Phantom rose from the organ bench. Distance had its value, but the opera must transpire in its proper timing. As an overseer of the theater he had observed and learned to excel in the art of pretense and would battle all damnable emotion of any personal nature to carry out what he must in order to achieve that purpose…

Like a startled doe Christine watched his approach but said nothing. He stood across the room and faced her, his stance making his intentions apparent. Still, she could not prevent her nervousness from airing in a pointless query.

"What are you doing?"

"We have reached your final scene of the final act. It is a duet, but you are treating it as a solo."

"So you'll be leading me around again, as if we were on stage?"

"I have little choice, since you must learn the blocking and correct steps before you are to go above."

She smoothed suddenly damp hands down her skirt. Both Jacques and Jolene had disappeared to the back chambers some time ago, and she and the Phantom were alone.

"You said final. Am I ready then, to go above - now that I know the entire opera?"

"Not quite." He didn't return her tentative smile, his expression one of a martyr about to confront an undesirable undertaking. "Shall we proceed."

It wasn't a question, and as his student she could hardly give any answer but the one he wished, reminding herself of her recent resolution not to challenge him in matters involving his opera. This rehearsal was characteristic of the stage. She was now an actress and soon must perform this scene, above, with a stranger whose name she did not yet even know. The Phantom had made a custom of shirking from her touch, his interest blatantly nil. There was no reason to be so nervous.

Her rational convictions did not help alleviate the erratic beating of her heart, and Christine caught her lip between her teeth as with agile grace he strode toward her, lifting his hand in the seductive motion of Don Juan, as per the libretto. And then he began to sing, and she was lost to all else.

His seductive eyes probed her own and shimmered like golden pools of liquid fire. His passionate voice, as smooth and sensual as a brush of silk against her skin, elicited the same shivering effect…

He lunged to stand behind her and she gasped when the heat of his hand spread softly against her throat, his other arm curling around her waist and pulling her hard against the length of his body. All of it choreographed and staged for the opera …yet the swift rush of warmth through her blood felt uncontrived. Once, high in the catwalks, he held her this close. She felt lightheaded then too.

Christine struggled for emotional equilibrium, the Phantom's song now a caress, his lips ghosting the shell of her ear, when suddenly he moved away. His hands lightly clasped her shoulder, his fingers trickling down her sleeve to stop at her wrist. He bent over her hand, his lips a breath from her fingers, his eyes peering up in devilish mischief, keeping in character with the infamous Don Juan. Her hand trembled in his grasp. As far as she could tell, the two men - one of fiction, one too real - were very much alike.

He straightened in retreat, taking her slowly with him, his every movement one of languid seduction. As his part of the song drew to a close she snatched her damp hand from his warm hold, per the instructions of the libretto, perhaps a bit too forcefully. His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

Her skin tingled, a chill left in the absence of his fingers where they had stroked fire against it. She would feel fortunate if she could remember her name, much less her cue.

The Phantom sang the last of his coaxing words, and she waited a brief pause, as the script said to, before Aminta's bold response of surrender spilled from her lips. At her feigned exuberance, a spark of approval ignited in the amber depths of his eyes - setting her adrift in a stupor - one from which she quickly recovered.

She sang with renewed confidence, the choreography intuitive as she moved in a semicircle that sufficed for the stairs she would ascend on stage. He mirrored her movements, joining with her in song, each slowly striding toward the other until they met, clasping each other's waists. He grabbed her hand and twirled her around, bringing her back flush against him. She weakened, melting into his strength, every muscle in his chest felt as he pressed against her back. His palms smoothed up her bodice to the backs of her hands, his fingers interlocking with hers, both of them splayed against her dress so that he guided her touch…

Her entire body trembled with the experience, and unable to prevent the need she leaned her head against his shoulder. Her song suffered, but he seemed not to hear the waver in her notes, his hands never ceasing to lead hers, one at her waist, the other moving up, over her breast. Her breathing grew taut and sporadic, a fog of rich sensation clouding her mind while every sense of his touch felt highly pronounced.

It was no more than pretense, an opera, an act, a story. It meant nothing to him, certainly nothing to her…

_Nothing..._

"_I cannot!_"

Snatching her hands from beneath his, Christine broke contact with the Phantom and spun around, taking several hurried steps and putting her hand to the wall. She fought to regain control of her labored breathing and calm her irrepressible shaking. The prickly silence that ensued accused her of her foolishness in the absence of his audible reproach.

She knew the latter wouldn't last long and was proven correct once he spoke.

"How many times must I say it?" His voice came harsh. "You must disassociate yourself from all personal feeling when you are on stage. You are _an actress_. Learn to behave like one."

She abruptly nodded. "Yes, yes of course. I don't know what came over me. It's all just - it's too much right now."

"We have worked past the time we usually conclude for the night. With the new opera underway in what now amounts to a matter of weeks it is imperative we take every opportunity to rehearse." His dissatisfied sigh was audible. "Nonetheless, it _is_ late. Perhaps you are weary…"

She grabbed at the escape he offered. "I am rather exhausted. I-I fear I've come down with something of a headache."

"Then go. Retire for the night. We shall begin anew tomorrow."

"Thank you, Maestro."

He gave an abrupt nod and turned his back to her, his stance remaining tall and dignified. She lingered a moment, watching him, then left the lake room, barely managing to keep a sedate pace, only again able to breathe properly once she reached the solitude of her bedchamber.

She stared into the looking glass, her countenance almost foreign to her, and lifted her fingers to touch flushed cheeks. Her gaze lowered to the rectangular box, with its red silk bow she'd again wrapped around it. Her fingers caressed the ribbon before she realized what she was doing, and she snatched her hand away.

She could not reason, could not think. _Oh, what was wrong with her?_ Turning from the dresser she looked for Mozart, hoping to divert her scattered attention toward indulging the cat. Of course, he was nowhere to be found when she wanted him.

A heated bath did little to help soothe her beleaguered mind though it did ease the tension from her shoulders. Once she finally sought her bed, Christine tossed and turned for what seemed half the night, unable to find comfort within the linen warmth. The sudden accompaniment of his somber music fostered her distress while his notes resonated in the deepest echoes of her heart.

Long after the chords had stilled, she stared into the empty darkness.

**x**

A series of explosions startled Christine awake, and she jumped to a sitting position in alarm. Seconds of silence followed, the only sound the rapid drumming of her heart in her ears. Another distant explosion had her softly cry out and abandon her bed, thrusting cold feet into her slippers. She threw her wrapper around her shoulders and pushed her arms through the sleeves as she raced to the main lake chamber. The booming sounds that had become faint again grew louder.

Her imagination played every conceivable horror as she raced into the dimly lit cavern. The spacious area stood empty with nothing to suggest a tragedy had occurred.

She followed the infrequent blasts up the steps and halted in shock at the threshold near the light of one lone candle, to see the bed curtains wide open, the Phantom lying still in his bed.

She stared until another distant bang from somewhere beyond the rock made her gasp, and she realized the din must be coming from the interior lake room. Her heart lurched at his sudden movement as he sat up on the mattress and turned her way. His form was draped in shadows but even they did not hide the absence of a nightshirt, and she gripped the wall to see the pale gleam of his arms and chest. Breathless, she kept her eyes fastened there for several seconds before she lifted them to his face. In the dim lighting she made out the outline of his black mask.

"What the devil are you doing there?"

"I heard explosions- I thought we were in danger," she blurted in response to his irate question. "I had no idea you were in bed, no idea of the time at all."

Another series of blasts followed her terse words. She clutched the edges of her wrapper beneath her throat. "There! Do you hear? Surely all of Paris is under attack!"

"It is no more than the usual trite display of festivity for the occasion."

_Trite display of festivity?_

"I don't understand…"

He hesitated, as if undecided, then the sheet rustled and her eyes widened when she realized his intent. She spun away, focusing on the misty lake. To observe him in secret in such a state was one thing, but the thought of looking on with his full awareness brought the heat of mortification to singe her skin. She wished to flee, but her legs felt leaden. She wrapped her arms around herself for warmth and consolation, the attempt vain.

Seconds later, she heard his footsteps approach from behind.

"Come."

Slowly Christine turned, her eyes skittishly wandering to him. The Phantom had pulled on his velvet robe over black silk trousers and now tied its sash around his waist. He didn't touch her but walked through the back exit and corridor to the interior lake room.

She hesitated then followed, joining him where he stood by the water's edge. He motioned in a graceful arc with his arm, his attention going upward.

Baffled, Christine followed his gaze to the high ceiling of rock and the patch of dark sky.

"What are we doing here?"

"Be still and watch. There are often lapses of silence before another volley of flares begin."

"But I don't - _oh my…_" Her confusion gave way to amazement as twin sunbursts of ruby and gold exploded above their heads. "Colored lights that fill the heavens?" And so spectacular they were! A fusion of brilliant rays that fanned out in majestic panorama then faded, the sky returning to a serene canvas of velvet black. "But what does it mean?"

"The Parisians grand idea of greeting a new year." His words were ones of ridicule. "A foolish celebratory exhibit to mark the instigation of change."

"Foolish? But - _this is extraordinary!_"

"You have never seen a fireworks exhibit?" His words came softer.

"No - I…"

Another massive burst of red filled the sky, this one followed synonymously with bursts of green, gold, and blue - more intense than before - and she nervously clutched his arm.

The tensing of his muscle beneath her fingertips brought her to the awareness of what she'd done. She dropped her hand from his sleeve before he could move away, looking toward him at the same time his eyes went to hers. Seconds fraught with a strange sort of tension brought warmth all through her and she gripped her robe at her thigh.

"Then - there's no danger?" she whispered as the dazzling lights above cast a pale golden hue against his face, reflecting the fire in his eyes.

"No danger."

His tone came soft and steady, unlike the rapid beats of her pulse. A different kind of danger seemed to infuse the very atmosphere. He made no move to touch her, but she felt him in every cell of her being.

"I should go," she whispered, taking a step back.

"Yes, you should."

His detached agreement wounded, and she felt angry that it did.

"Well then. I'll go. At least now that Jolene is here to wake me, I'll no longer make the mistake of arriving too early." Her face flamed at the recollection of finding him half naked in his bed. "Well then - goodnight."

He inclined his head in a gesture of farewell.

Christine hastened through the rooms and along the corridors like the agitated canary that had drawn too close to the great sleek cat. Once in her bedchamber, she volubly cursed her ridiculous and infantile behavior for running from him yet again - then shifted blame to the formidable dark lord of the caverns. All the while she paced the short expanse of open area between bed and dressing table, her fretful trek continuing long after the distant explosions concluded.

"Damn his arrogant hide, damn his maddening mystique, _and damn him_!"

A knock at the door had her whirl around to face it and clutch the dresser's edge with one hand.

"Yes?" She barely recognized her voice for the huskiness in her throat.

The door opened and the Phantom entered. She was surprised he bothered to knock.

Momentarily diverted by his stride, no less masculine for its fluid grace, Christine watched his approach. His agility only added to the impression of lean, supple strength. An untamed panther - how many times had she equated him with that feral beast of the night? Recognizing her return to idiocy - and she was certainly no frail little bird! - she struggled to collect her wits about her.

"So you will always know the time." Rather than pounce, he halted a short distance away and laid something on her dressing table. A glance in that direction showed her that he had brought a small silver pocket watch.

"Is that why you came at…" she peered at its glass-covered face, "…a quarter past two in the morning? To give me this?"

He brusquely nodded. "Now you have no further excuse of being unaware of the time."

"You could have waited a few hours until I came for practice and given it to me then."

"I chose to come now, since you had already awakened me. You, too, are awake so I did not intrude on your slumber. And now I shall leave you to your rest."

Her _rest…_

The fiend.

Suddenly exceedingly angry, though for what logical reason she had no clue, Christine crossed her arms over her breasts. She glared at his broad velvet-clothed shoulders as he strode purposefully to the door.

"Why did you marry me, monsieur? And I want _the full truth_ this time."

Her quiet demand stopped him in his tracks.

**x**

Christine stared hard at the Phantom.

He did not turn from the door.

"I cannot perceive a reason." She spread her hands in a shrug he couldn't see. "It's been three weeks since we were wed, and we go on as before with only one small concession to routine. I visit your chambers to learn your opera. Later, we eat supper. I return to my chamber, you remain in yours. And _that_ is the sum of our days."

A breathless, tense moment elapsed before he moved to look at her. His eyes were as annoyingly impassive as his features beneath the mask.

"What precisely are you asking me, Christine?"

His quiet and rare use of her name brought the shiver of want along her spine to hear him say it again.

"Nothing has changed. Why even go through with a ceremony? Was it staged, like so much else in that bizarre theater you run? Did you pay an actor to impersonate a priest and take me to the chapel when you knew it would be empty?"

His eyes glinted. "I assure you, Madame, it was all very real. _You are bound to me for life._"

She swallowed hard at his emphatic words and the dizziness they provoked. Once, such faintness sprang from dread, but the emotions she now felt were far from terror.

"Then I will ask again, Monsieur, what reason did you have for even _wanting_ to marry me?"

He did not respond.

"You initially told me it was no more than a business venture to protect your interests, but I've thought long and hard on that. You could have easily drawn up a contract and allowed me to sign my assets over to you - as I once suggested. Perhaps even had Madame Giry oversee it, since she's your assistant. I may not be knowledgeable in matters of the law, but I have heard things and know such contracts are legal and binding. You _could_ have taken all of what you earned as my manager and teacher and ensured that you receive a continual stipend. I even _told you_ that the money wasn't a significant issue to me and you could have all of it if you did _not_ force a marriage between us - but you refused."

"As did you." His words were cold, low and forceful. "Need I remind you that _you_ were the one who chased me down and **_begged_ **me to marry you - _**all to save the life of that meddlesome boy.**_"

She narrowed her eyes, not about to be waylaid with more vicious talk of the Vicomte. This night, she _would_ know the truth!

"I'm well aware of my reasons. But that doesn't change the fact that _**you **_have wanted a marital union with me from the start, since the night you first brought me here. Call it a business arrangement if you like - but I have just pointed out why that explanation makes no sense."

She lifted her chin, regarding him with determination.

Standing motionless, he made no move to agree with or deny her claim.

"You certainly didn't marry me for companionship! Until I asked you to dine with me, we rarely conversed in a sociable manner. You have said that once you teach me all I must know for your opera you'll release me to go back to the world above…so, companionship wasn't the cause. And It makes no sense that you would marry me to protect yourself from capture. I _**swore to you**_ I would never divulge your identity, even if you were to let me see behind your mask. Oh, I know you don't trust me, but you must realize how I've come to care about Jacques. You have no need - nor did you then - to fear me ever turning you over to the police or testifying against you. I'm **_glad_** you did what you could to save them from that wretched beast at the hotel."

His golden eyes did not once flicker beyond the mask. Not by expression or word did he acknowledge that he understood her admission - that she knew the details of that night and his deadly part in it.

"And you certainly didn't marry me for money. I came to the opera house with nothing but the clothes on my back and barely two shillings to rub together."

His silence was unnerving. She brought her arms in front of her, rubbing them a little in unease, her anger diminishing.

Yet she would not back down, not this time.

"I have no title, not that you covet one, since you'd rather hide yourself from the world and all who reside in it. And what I once thought might be the reason proved false …" The memories of her wanton dreams, both awake and asleep came to her, heating her face and strangely riling her anger again. "You never even _kissed_ _me_ after the vows we spoke until Meg asked if you would!" The accusation rushed out before she could prevent it.

When she understood her rash words, her face grew hotter still.

He tilted his head to the side in that sardonic manner that questioned. His intense eyes never wandered from her face.

"Not that I wanted you to," she amended quickly. "It was just - I was only surprised that you never once tried of your own initiative." She shook her head, frustration again seeding her words. "In fact, you do entirely the opposite. Since the time I was ill, you barely touch me unless it's absolutely necessary or has something to do with the opera – or you're upset – or I am – or hurt – but never for any other reason. When _I_ _have_ accidentally brushed against you or – or touched you, you recoil from me as if I have the plague and you cannot stand to be near me…"

She stopped her reckless diatribe to inhale a quick, necessary breath.

Not retreating now, he moved toward her with unwavering stealth, a strange light glowing in his unique eyes.

She lowered her own, the anger dying away in a rush of something warm and breathless that threatened to make her either implode with anticipation or collapse from unrest.

"Do I truly offend you so horribly?" she continued in a whisper as he came to stand before her. "You said upon our first meeting and others that I don't interest you in that," she softly cleared the sudden hitch from her throat, "_that_ manner, but it doesn't change the fact that you were determined to have a m-marital union with me."

Dear God, _what was she saying?!_ Wishing she could take it all back, with no idea how to do so, she felt helpless with what to do in the awful wake of his silence.

Nervously Christine moistened her lower lip and stared at the wall of his chest. He had often prowled close to intimidate, but this felt different. Still, she could not cease from foolishly digging deeper at her own grave. The blockage of doubts at last released, the questions poured forth breaking the dam of her desire to know more. Curiosity had always been her destruction, her rash tongue as effective as a battering ram to demolish all that she held dear.

"I just… I …well, _I don't understand_," she said, again determined. Why must she always be left in the dark? "And – and I'd like you to enlighten me. What exactly is it that _you_ _want_ in this bizarre arrangement you have ordained between us?"

He braced his hands on either side of her head against the wall, leaning close but not touching her. She swallowed hard, waiting for his response. Would he mock her? Berate her? Taunt her? At his continued silence, her heart beat out a staccato of protest and something more as she pressed her damp palms to the stones near her hips.

"Why will you not answer…?" Her words came out in a faint whine, a breathless plea she begged him to satisfy.

The heat from his body warmed her in the cool chamber, the nearness of him shocking and exciting and causing the blood to pulse through her head and swirl through her ears. Every nerve ending felt acutely aware of him, every fiber of her being alert to the slightest sensation of his movement. When she could no longer endure the agony of his silence, she slowly lifted her attention from the patch of glistening skin above his velvet robe and looked up into his darkly lashed golden eyes.

They burned her with their fire.

The message of want in them paralyzed her with shock.

"M-monsieur?"

Before she could take a steadying breath he leaned in slowly, his mouth the barest whisper from hers, as if he might yet draw back. His breath felt hot and unsteady against her trembling lips –

"Madame," he whispered, his smile as soft and wicked and darkly potent as his voice.

At once, his mouth covered hers hard, as if to punish her for her persistence. Stunned by the unexpected act, Christine offered no struggle, the thought to do so not even crossing her mind.

At the instant yield of her lips and body, the Phantom's behavior changed, the kiss becoming so possessively tender she was astonished it came from him. All the contained hurt of his former rejections and the inexplicable need for his acceptance came out in a soft whimper as she leaned into him, begging for more.

A second time his mouth grew demanding, fierce and passionate. His tongue forced her lips to further part and pushed inside, his long slender hands moving to press against her head and move it as he willed, so as to ravage the wet cavern of her mouth until she felt boneless. A wildfire burned through her blood as his tongue commanded hers into sweet submission while he kissed her with an expertise that made her dizzy with need, the taste of him exquisite, of cloves and spice and rich burgundy wine.

He tore his mouth from hers, both of them gasping with the need to draw breath into lungs starved for air.

"Is _that_ what _you_ wanted, Christine?" His voice, her name on his lips, came husky. Deep. Seductive. While his words were a mockery as if he didn't believe such a thing could be possible.

His low query gently rumbled through her every pore and reverberated deep inside her reawakening spirit. The days of foolish subterfuge were dead and gone and good riddance. She could no longer deny the plea of her soul, of her entire body that ached for his touch alone ... did not even wish to try. She was nervous of what that might mean but so very weary of struggling against the heavy, constant pull between them, like endless weeks of trying to fight a strong river current, when to release inhibition and let the tide take her away seemed so much more freeing…

"Yes."

And in that faint whisper, Christine daringly crossed every recognized barrier between them, to stand at the precipice of the unknown, while with fearful anticipation she awaited his response.

.

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: Is that something like you guys were hoping for? ;-)**

**Sorry to leave it there, but every chapter must have an end. And the next scene is quite long…**

***insert angelic wicked grin**


	47. Chapter 47

******A/N: Hmm, how do I put this: major firestorm ahead. Children, proceed no further. Adult only area…. (I like to be creative with my warnings.) Needless to say, this chapter strongly deserves the rating…And now...**

* * *

**Chapter XLVII**

.

The hunger burned within - a live thing, impossible to restrain.

Nor did she want to.

When the Phantom failed to move or show any sign of a response whatsoever, Christine faintly, breathlessly whispered her need for him a second time.

_"Yes…"_

She stared at his mouth, parted and wet, glistening from their impassioned kisses. Surprise became manifest in the sudden jump of the muscle in his jaw and she again dared to look up into golden, heavy-lidded eyes.

They were intent with shock behind the mask.

"Oh, God –_ yes!_"

Moving her hands from the wall, Christine clutched his strong shoulders and brought her mouth swiftly back to his.

How she wanted this! Beyond all reason, beyond all insane scruples and prudish sanity… and with a little thrill of triumph she realized he wanted her too! It was in his every response to her touch, in their embrace, in the desire blazing like a wildfire in his eyes–

_He could no longer bloody well deny it if he tried!_

As if reading her mind, he groaned low against her lips, the sound heaven to her ears, the ultimate sound of surrender. The flame of passion so long denied, so utterly repressed, exploded between them like inner sunbursts of fire, demanding no less than to relinquish all. Their kisses grew frantic and wild, landing where they may. He kissed her mouth and jaw, her neck, her ear, tasting of her flesh, then claimed her mouth again as if she were his oasis and he thirsted for as much of her as he could take. Through thin layers of wrapper and shift she felt the firm touch of his hand cover her breast like a brand of possession. His thumb rubbed the protrusion of nipple beneath the cloth, and she moaned against his lips, pushing herself into his hand.

He pulled away from her mouth, his body quivering. Slightly he shook his head as if to clear it. "You have bewitched me, my captive temptress..." His voice was gruff but still sated with beauty, his words a rasp of warm, moist breath against her skin, and she shivered from the sensation of both. He raised his eyes to hers, and she gasped to see the raw hunger there, blatant and sharp, no longer denied.

"I _will_ take you this night..." He stared at her lips as he spoke, as if in a fog, "but if that is not your wish - _You must tell me and not toy with me, Christine_. I warn you now, the moment for turning back will soon be forever lost. To both of us."

There was something so poignantly appealing and oddly vulnerable about his disbelief that she would want to be with him, in total contradiction to her views of this powerful, seductive man. His attitude only served to make her ache for him more, and she rested her hand, trembling, against his chest.

"The point of no return…"

Desire flared even darker in his eyes as he flicked them up to hers. "Yes."

His quiet avowal sharpened her need. Grabbing the lapels of his robe in tight fists, Christine pulled him to her hard.

"No more resisting." A second time she lifted herself on her toes to find his mouth with hers in her awkward seduction. "I want this, my dark Angel of Music …" she shamelessly begged between soft kisses, her own desire making her brazen. "…my wicked Phantom captor … I _need this…_"

He growled low, holding her pressed against him for a long moment, as if still strangely hesitant - then in one sudden move, tore her robe open and dragged it from her shoulders letting it fall to the ground. His large hands spread across her spine, scorching skin through shift as he again held her tightly, bringing her hips close to his, and she felt the full demand of his desire.

Nervous of what lay ahead, but not so much as to retreat from his embrace, Christine tightened her arms around his neck. Never breaking his drugging kisses he turned with her, moving her back until her legs hit the high bed. With his large hands burning her waist and hips through the linen of her shift, he lifted her and pressed her back with his body, falling with her to the cold coverlet.

Christine gasped in delight to feel the exquisite weight of him on top of her, his lean, hard form against her softness pressing her into the mattress. Sinew and muscle against pliant flesh. It made her feel weak and alive, anxious and euphoric at the same time.

His lips were moist, suckling tender flesh and leaving damp fire in their wake as they slowly made their journey down the slim column of her neck. More wondrous than any imagining of the day or wicked dream of the night, the vivid reality she finally attained was beyond compare to such temporal shadows. She closed her eyes, feeling as if her body was again coming to life after so long being buried in cinders. Just as he had revived her deflated spirit with his phenomenal music and voice, so he was now doing to her senses with his possessive touch…

She breathed in the exhilarating scent of him – of tangy musk and sweet spice and candle smoke – but even as he again drank from her lips and stroked her yielding body, she could not help remember the last time she had been kissed so passionately and held and adored like this and with whom. She didn't want to - _God, she didn't want to!_ Not now, not like this! It was long ago, another lifetime away, but often her dark Phantom reminded her so much of her lost love that though she'd sworn never again to revisit the past, she couldn't help but note the similarity…

All ghostly moments of bygone years rapidly evaporated in the light of the present as his hand gripped the square neckline of her thin shift and impatiently pulled downward. Stunned, she heard the weak stitching give way to the rip of linen even as the material caught snugly against her skin and cool air rushed across her breasts. A niggling of old panic to remember her cousin's similar treatment made her instinctively tense –

– yet this felt nowhere near the same. She _wanted_ this ...

She wanted this man …

With a dark passion that threatened to consume her.

_"Christine …"_

He inhaled a shaky breath at the sight of what he uncovered in his haste to know more of her then glanced up into her eyes. She felt as if she might melt from the look of awe and need and want there. He remained motionless, his eyes burning in question, his body shaking as he held back. She stared at him in dazed wonder, realizing he must also be recalling what little she'd told him of her near rape that happened almost three months ago.

"I did not mean to…I have no wish to frighten you…" His words were penitent, softer. Gentler than she'd ever heard him speak.

She barely shook her head. If she wasn't before certain that she wanted to belong to him entirely, his genuine and rare display of unreserved concern for her feelings left no doubt in her mind, and she gave him a timid smile.

"You didn't."

His eyes glowed with what looked like fiery adoration at her whisper, seeming to spark and fuel his response. He moved as if unable to tarry a second longer from touching her and covered her exposed flesh with his mouth, his hot tongue laving her with wet fire.

The moment his mouth found her tight crest, Christine's eyes grew wide. A rush of shock and need so powerful brought heat to inflame her skin, shooting deep to her core and burning away all traces of erstwhile fear that had no place in this moment. His hungry lips and tongue suckled at the globe of her trembling flesh while she clutched the back of his head, urging him for more, the hollow ache in her belly becoming intense. Softly he bit her rigid nipple, pulling away slowly and letting the nub of pink flesh escape his warm mouth. She groaned in distress that he had ended such wicked pleasures.

"Tell me you are sure you want this," he hoarsely whispered, his voice almost unrecognizable. "Want _me_. The monster who abducted you, the beast you have long feared –"

_God – what did he need to convince him?!_

In reply she grabbed his head with an impatient groan and reached up for him, again pulling him to her, her lips crushing his. There was no going back. She never wanted to go back – _the point of return be damned!_

After a short time he broke away from her seeking lips to kiss a damp trail down the center of her breasts.

"Christine …_oh, my Christine …_"

She gave a quivering sigh of satisfaction, the sound of her name again whispering from his lips as profound as the touch of them as they caressed her other nipple. She was drowning in a mire of sensation so dense, she could not reason, only feel. The area between her legs grew wetter with every gentle pull of his mouth, every sensual slide of his hands over her body as he sought to know all the hidden planes and contours of her skin.

Christine held her breath as his fingers slid along the inside of her calf, moving beneath the hem of her chemise, their tips tracing up her inner thigh toward the boundary of tight curls…so much like another experience, on the moors, what seemed ages ago, and she softly shook her head to rid her mind of that lost moment and keep her focus in the delectable present and this man, who was her present.

At last, his fingers found their end journey and dipped gently into the moist flesh of her womanhood. She hissed with pleasure even as her eyes fluttered closed, rolling back in her head at the deep intimacy of his touch and she felt the warm breath of his groan as he stroked her there. She gasped at the electrifying sensation amid the ripples of pleasure he provoked…

Cool air wafted over her moist breast as his lips left it. His eyes worshiped her body, briefly lifting to her half-closed lids, before she heard the slow tear of weakened material as he exposed more of her naked flesh to his soft, burning lips. His hands held her sides beneath her breasts, the tip of his tongue ringing her navel, dipping inside, before his mouth traveled across her flat belly scattering heated kisses to every inch of her pale, trembling skin. She held fast to his arms as if he were the anchor to keep her steady – he, the overwhelming source of her frenzied emotions.

The Phantom lost himself in Christine's supple warmth, never having felt anything so incredible as this intimacy with his beautiful, angelic songbird. The touch of her, the sight and scent and taste of her sweet, silken skin aroused him beyond anything he had ever known and every dream once imagined…

Another rip and she was completely and gloriously naked before him. He pulled back to stare in wonder at the magnificence of her alabaster skin, her sumptuous sylphlike body, wishing to commit this night to memory, resolved never to forget one moment of the vision of her so beautiful and willing beneath him. He could almost imagine the shine in her liquid dark eyes was love but he dared not believe it. Hope had brought him nothing but pain. This moment, this one profound moment in his world of darkest night, this he would make be enough. If it was the most he would ever be allowed to have, next to the emptiness he had so long endured – to be with her, like this, was everything.

And he would have all of her this night, every particle of what she offered, seizing the entirety of what she had to give...pleasuring her beyond even that limited boundary. Tonight there were no boundaries, no bothersome realities to mar the pretense. Tonight, he was no beast, and she was still a maiden - _his maiden!_ And he would leave his mark upon her flesh, so that she could never forget that truth. For the rest of her days she would remember this night. This night, when the Phantom ravished her body and claimed her soul…

Christine watched him, suddenly nervous and uncertain. Her breasts heaved as she struggled for breath. His eyes glowed darker as they met her shy ones. Fierce. Hungry. Relentless. He gave her no time to question as he pushed her quivering thighs apart and to her stunned shock pressed his mouth to her damp center, as if to devour her.

She let out a hoarse, stuttering cry as his bold tongue tentatively licked that hidden part of her, then again more firmly. She jerked upright at the strong sensation he produced and tried to close her legs, but he held her captive in his iron grip, unwilling to yield.

"Let me drink from your pleasure, Christine…" His voice was a low rumble of silk, his breath hot against her wet flesh, and softly she whimpered at the stirring sensation. " … let me know _all of you …_"

"You shouldn't," she whispered, certain this couldn't be natural, at the same time her erstwhile wickedness battling her eroding modesty to experience the sin. "Y-you _mustn't…_"

He ignored her faint protests, and though Christine would never admit to such a thing, at that moment she was tremendously indebted to his stubborn nature. He tested and teased and drank from her flesh in a way that was sinfully wicked. Thoroughly shocking. But heaven help her, so deeply arousing…Surely she would go mad from the fiery sensations her Phantom awakened out of what scant morsels remained of her fast-dwindling innocence. She felt cognizant to nothing but his erotic act, the very air wafting over her fast losing its chill and becoming electric. Never had she felt such a degree of pleasure as this!

Maidenly shyness had fled with his first slow suckle, and now, when she felt she might come undone, primal instinct took over. She gripped his head, wantonly moving her body in instinctual rhythm beneath his greedy mouth, pleading with him for something she could not fully understand, whimpering when the torture grew extreme. She soared, reaching desperately for some desired plane of relief while drowning in the painful pleasure he instilled.

His tongue flickered over the highly sensitive flesh at the peak of her thatch of curls and she cried out at the intense sensation of need that instilled. The coil inside her belly tightened, the pressure deepened – _God, she was burning, never thought hell could be so much like heaven_ – until she could stand the intensifying ache no longer, and in that moment, he drew the pearl of her swollen flesh between his lips, caressing it with his tongue. Her body instantly shook with tremors that shattered in a warm glow of release. Her exhalations came out in soft wavering sobs of pure pleasure, while he continued to feast on her desire. Feeling almost lethargic from her body's reaction to his wild, animal seduction, she felt as if she might float away or sink through the bedding, unsure of which, uncaring of her fate as long as he came with her.

Her Phantom moved up from between her legs, slowly wiping her cream from his parted mouth with the back of his hand, making even that simple act seductive and bringing another tingle of shivers to her flesh. He stared into her eyes as he crawled up to her, his lean muscles contracting with the fluidity of the wildcat to which she so often compared him, his darkened eyes wild and feral and dangerous with the promise of what more was to come. Christine stared at him beneath heavy lids, his eager prey, and wondered what on earth her welcome hunter would do to her next …

How could she have feared such heat and passion and bliss? How could she have feared _him?_

He lifted her higher on the bed, then knelt between her legs and ripped open his robe that had loosened, tearing it from his shoulders. Stunned by the display of such determined power, a third time her gaze fastened to his pale torso, closer than she'd ever seen it. Untouched by sun, muscled and trim, tufts of dark hair dusting parts of his flesh and ending in a thin trail down his stomach. His arms were likewise toned and muscled. Her face heated as his lean hands went to his black silk trousers, and she gasped to see what they had concealed as he quickly stripped them from his body and he was as naked as she. Before she could fully take in the disclosure of his masculinity that the moonlit night in the lake only hinted at – before she could fully see and realize and nervously wonder _how_ this could even be possible – he moved the full length of his body over hers.

At the impression of intense heat, hard muscle and soft hair against her needy skin – all other thought fled and she gave a shiver of breathless satisfaction at the feel of his warm flesh pressed absolutely to hers. Shocking to her maidenly modesty, what little was left…but oh so very gratifying. She wrapped him tightly in her embrace, wishing to absorb every inch of him to herself, and reveled in his quiet groan.

"_You are mine,_" he growled near her ear in a rasp. "_You belong **to me**, Christine – **only** **to me**…you always have. You always will…_"

His possessive words sent a dangerous little thrill through her soul.

"Say it, Christine – _say the words! I must hear them from your lips…_"

"Only to you," she whispered in breathless plea. "Only yours…"

"_**Again!**_"

"_I am yours!_"

"_Until death and beyond…_"

"_Yes,_" she whimpered, "_Oh God - **please**, my husband - kiss me!_"

Supporting her head with both hands, he kissed her with a passion unbridled, stoking the fire that raged between them to a blaze that brightly smoldered. The strangeness to taste herself in his mouth vanished in a nervous instant as he shifted his lower body to press with insistence against hers. She felt his strong arousal, thick and hot, hard and silken, throbbing at the cradle of her thighs that he pulled so wide –

"_**Mine!**_" he savagely whispered, and with one fierce thrust, he merged them into union, an act of mutual desire that could never be undone. Sealing them together, the solid length of his manhood pierced chaste tissue, driving down without mercy to the tender depths of her core.

Every nerve and tendon within Christine tightened, and she let out a short scream of pained shock. The harsh sting of his rigid fullness bludgeoned her fragile center; she was certain he had ripped her open inside and she was bleeding. Tears she couldn't suppress flooded her eyes that she now squeezed shut, spilling through her lashes and over their corners. But instead of pushing him off of her, to rid herself of the unexpected burn as instinct commanded, her fingers pressed into his shoulders more deeply to keep him close. It made little sense, but despite the physical anguish he caused, she did not wish him to depart from her body or her bed…

…But then nothing had ever made sense with regard to her close feelings toward this man and her need to have him near. If this closeness was what it meant to be his woman, _his wife_, then she would endure the suffering that went along with it to know the intimacy he had taught her...her teacher in every sense of the word, in everything that mattered….

He raised himself to look at her, his eyes and mouth opened wide in horrified realization.

"_My God!_ You're _a virgin_…?"

She blinked in a haze of emotion, wondering why he presumed otherwise, then realized he must have thought she'd been fully violated by her cousin. His stunned words and experience made it clear he was not untried. But she knew that already, as early as her first day of her arrival to the theater, later with the realization he had a son and his intimate knowledge of the maid – but in this perfect instant she did not care or wish to think about any others he knew before. Not when they lay entwined in the present, their vows at last consummated, and she experienced the baffling wonder of his abundance inside her.

_Dear God, inside her!_

The pain was not as fierce as when he first entered her body, slowly fading as he continued to stare at her face, a myriad of emotions flickering through his passion-darkened eyes. She could barely discern even one of them in her equally sensual haze.

It felt as if he filled all of her, as if he were a part of _her very being!_ Christine had never experienced anything so painful and overwhelming that at the same time felt so absolute...so...incredible.

His hands shook as he moved to cradle her face, the dark fiery passion that earlier controlled them melting into a poignant warmth that made her heart clench as his manner grew extremely gentle and concerned, more so than she'd ever known him to be. A film of moisture coated his eyes and made them shine more golden – what little rim of that color remained against the pools of darkness that had enlarged and glowed like obsidian.

His eyes thoroughly fascinated her.

"Christine, ma cherie, had I only known! I thought … I'm sorry. _God!_ - _so very sorry …_"

She nodded but couldn't help feel that his gruffly tender words of remorse held a deeper, hidden meaning. His discovery of her innocence appeared to leave him more shaken than she felt the matter warranted. He was trembling hard, his glazed eyes so full of sorrow and shame and shock that her heart twisted at his anguish, and she wished only to reassure, to tell him that she wanted this, that it was alright and despite the unexpected pain she wasn't the least bit regretful. But speech failed her, the waves of myriad emotions in experiencing this coveted moment far too great for words.

At last she would admit it: _she had wanted him for so long_, the feelings of need and attraction beginning to stir since the first week he brought her to his caverns, the very first day, if she was entirely honest with herself. The love had come later. God – _she loved him!_ She could never have given herself to him otherwise. It felt liberating to at last let herself think it, and she ached for him to know the fullness of such truth. Ached for him to know that he possessed both her body and her heart. Even her soul, reawakened with his passion. She _did_ belong to him, in every sense of the word.

With a tremulous smile Christine pressed her fingertips to his damp cheek beneath the mask, wishing to remove the soft, molded black leather but not daring to. She wanted him to learn that he could trust her with anything. She could not express her love for him and in the next moment tear away any hope for that trust by pulling away his disguise. One day she earnestly hoped he would believe in her enough to remove the mask of his own accord, to share at least that part of his identity with her, though she wanted to know him in full. He was so much more than a wanted criminal, he had become integral to her in these past months. Until he was ready, she was resigned to wait, fearing that if she were even to ask him to remove his mask it would destroy this perfect moment between them, this connectedness they shared. And not for anything would she do that.

She sought for a way to speak her heart, oddly shy to acknowledge her newly discovered feelings aloud, though they lay naked in each other's arms and as close as two people could become. He had never expressed words of love or fondness, not so much as hinted at it. Indeed, no more than an hour ago she thought him averse to her as a woman. Clearly he wanted her physically, but what if he did not return her strong affection? Would it possibly mar this moment of deep intercourse to speak of love? Many times he had shunned and ridiculed the emotion as a weakness and a curse, and that memory made her hesitate to speak.

"It will feel better," he promised, a tear escaping to christen her cheek as his velvet-edged voice rumbled deeper and moved all through her. "I will show you …"

The fiery throb had faded to a dull ache, and she nodded in trust. Lowering his head, he tasted of her swollen lips in soft, unhurried kisses, the brush of his mouth against hers awakening a second time all the wonderful sensations he earlier aroused. His large, warm hand trailed up her body and the pad of his thumb brushed across the top of her breast. She arched against him in shameless want.

"_Please,_" she begged, though she did not fully understand her plea. Only knew that he alone could fulfill it.

"_Yes, Christine…my sweet, sweet Christine…_"

Slowly, oh so slowly as if afraid to hurt her again, he began to move, retreating partway, only to gradually fill her again. His hand slid lower over her waist and hip. Cupping her side he slid his fingers to her bottom, sliding further along her skin to grasp her thigh and bring it up against his waist.

"_My God, you're so tight_," he rasped against her shoulder, his voice thick and awed.

"_Is that…is that alright?_" she whispered, a blush heating her face.

He groaned again, almost a cry. "_It is perfect_."

She smiled against his neck, grateful that even as untried as she was, she pleased him.

His movements within at first felt strange, her flesh still tender, but then –

Christine's eyes fluttered closed and she moaned at the delicious friction he created. Each long wet stroke became a firm caress inside that enlivened her blood and brought back the urgent need. He taught her to move with him, and she pressed her hands flat to the middle of his back, feeling the stripes of raised scars from a whip beneath her touch, further proof that he was a wanted man, in all likelihood an escaped convict. Even that sobering knowledge did not dampen her insatiable hunger to have her Phantom fully possess her in such a pleasurable fashion. And for her to possess him…

She would gladly embrace madness if only to keep him with her forever. She would embrace his dark netherworld if it meant that this could be the heavenly sum of their nights together. Never again apart…Queen Persephone to his King Hades. Only she _would never_ leave him or allow anyone to take her from his side…

She moaned in need, overcome, as all conscious thought left, her only focus the man in her arms and the pleasure he instilled….

The Phantom employed every skill learned to prolong their passionate duet and disallow his greedy body to succumb to completion without her first experiencing the rich fullness of her longing. He adjusted their tempo to a richer, more gradual pace when his efforts to hinder his own need seemed in vain. A vocal lover, she groaned low and deep, a throaty exhalation of approval as she brought her legs around him, and he shuddered with the ecstasy, his senses likewise filled with the touch, sight, and scent of his intoxicating Christine.

She was the only taste of heaven in this hell he had known…

Their tongues sought and drank from each other with an exquisite thirst, the relentless ache increasing with each stroke of his hard flesh into her lush core, until the burning need grew extreme and beyond his ability to prohibit. He tore his mouth from hers, his strokes more intense, the dark passion to consume and be consumed returning en force.

Christine moaned as he thrust harder into her body that surrendered utterly to him. One with him … as if not only their bodies but their souls were joined. Their hearts. _Dear God, yes!_ That' s how it felt! The mate of her soul, _the all consuming fire of her life …_

The pressure weighed heavily deep inside her belly, the urgency for release impossible to bear, and she dug her fingers into his back and cried out when a similar shattering force as before exploded within her loins…

"_E-rik_," she barely whispered on a stilted breath as the mammoth pressure loosened in a rush of sensation that shook her head to toe, only too late realizing whose name she uttered in her mindless bliss.

Either he no longer cared, or lost in their passion he did not hear, and she desperately hoped it was the latter, horrified that another man's name left her lips during such deep intimacy. She held her Phantom tightly while he never ceased pounding into her flesh. Her body trembled so from the litany of sensation, she could barely control it – when suddenly he clutched her hips hard, anchoring himself deep within her contracting walls. Shuddering, he groaned, his form going rigid as he hoarsely cried her name, his seed spilling into her womb, until spent, he collapsed against her.

Delicious warmth bathed Christine in its satiated glow, and she squirmed beneath her dark lover in rosy contentment, not even minding that his greater weight now pressed her firmly into the mattress. Being so close, coupled together like this, felt astounding … freeing.

After a moment, he shifted, making it easier to breathe, but did not leave her. They held fast to one another as their senses calmed, their hearts beating in parallel staccato while they relished each other's nearness. His lips languidly brushed beneath her ear while she ran gentle trails along his damp back. Thinking of nothing…believing in everything…

This was heaven.

"_Christine, ma cherie,_" his words came low, slurred with sated passion and adoring. "_Mon Petit Ange…_"

Her hands froze on his spine, her eyes opening in confusion.

"_Wh-what did you just call me?_" she whispered, barely able to catch her breath.

He grew very still.

But she had no need for him to tell her. She didn't know much French, as well he knew, but she did understand _those_ three soft-spoken words, some of the first she learned in these caverns. Words that always had been to her a sweet comfort. Words that only one from her homeland had used as his special endearment for her.

Words that she last heard whispered in her own language over four long years ago …

Words that her Phantom never called her in his.

She wondered if in her lethargy of bliss she somehow heard wrong. Or if not, why he should now call her that, when he'd only ever called her his songbird. "Did you say what I think you di– "

With a suddenness that bewildered, he wrenched away from her with a quiet curse, rolling off her body and snatching his robe from the ground. Before she could think to call after him in troubled bewilderment, he swiftly exited her bedchamber.

For breathless seconds Christine stared dumbly at the spot where he'd last been.

The dawn of blinding realization seared into her mind, helped along by a host of memories. Of tonight – and this morning – and a multitude more from the past two and a half months – each of them now mocking and glaring and rushing in to propel truth's emergence in a din of blatant clarity too horrible to believe –

Dear God, no…

No.

_He **couldn't!**_

**_He wouldn't!_**

**NO!**

_He… He…_

did.

A disbelieving, furious hurt whirled inside her heart, so newly recovered, instantly replacing the acute shock that fogged her senses. With grim purpose, she struggled up and out of the tangled bedding. Pulling her wrapper from the ground and around her nakedness, Christine belted it tightly, wincing at the tenderness of her loins, yet not about to let even that hinder her from racing after him in hot, angry pursuit.

This time he would not stop her –

_his former threats be damned!_

**xXx**


	48. Chapter 48

**A/N: Okay guys, you can put your Punjabs away now. ;-) Please note, in light of recent reviews (and no way to contact those reviewers) I joke around sometimes, but I work hard to get chapters up asap. I have 3 stories ongoing here- all E/C. (It's the way I write- plus I've found it helps combat writer's block- to work on more than one). With this, I wrote 4 chapters in a row- neglecting my other 2 stories for a bit because this one is most popular. I left you with a juicy chapter while I worked on other stories & posted… I strive for quality, and quality takes time. I could just slapdash a chapter and post the first thing I write- but you wouldn't like the end result. ;-) Thanks for the lovely reviews, for your interest and -to those who plan to stick it out- for your continued support. It really does help. :) And now…**

* * *

**Chapter XLVIII**

.

Damn his wretched, bleeding heart to the nether regions of the universe!

Though in his estimation, it already shriveled there...

The Phantom belted his robe around his waist and hurried down a secret passage, a more circuitous route Christine knew nothing about. If she could not find him, he hoped she might give up the chase, and chase him she was sure to do. He knew he would have to face her eventually. But he needed time to think his way out of this damnable mess.

This _was not_ how it was to be – upon visiting her chamber tonight, he certainly never intended on making love to her! And every expression of what they had shared was love, God help him. At least on his part. He had never experienced such devastating yet exhilarating emotion with anyone as she ignited within his empty excuse for a heart and a soul so long twisted and dark, so dark …

As he hurried through the concealed corridor, his mind traveled along its own detour, to events of the past three years, here, and in the theater above – all of them wretched mistakes – and all, in their own dismal and absurd fashion, leading to this one moment from which he now fled.

The first gross misjudgment occurred in a remote corridor above shortly after he arrived to the theater, where he encountered Juliet, intoxicated and as surprised to see him as he'd been to run across her path. Her interest had been evident. After having recently fled Persia and the horrors he'd been forced to create there, also having just heard the distressing news from England with regard to Christine's activities, he had yearned to feel whole again, to feel wanted, and hoped to find some semblance of it with the tipsy dancer. Vastly experienced, she had been thorough, giving him favors he never knew existed, also instructing him in how to pleasure a woman. But before they could conclude their wicked tryst, before he could plunge into her body and learn the mystery that eluded, they were interrupted by clamor coming from an adjoining corridor – a flock of dancers returning late from a night of revelry in the city.

Shocked into awareness, he had left her protesting and pouting and retreated to his dungeons, disgusted by what he allowed. Later he sought her out, warning her never to speak of what happened between them. She agreed to stay silent, if he resumed their covert liaison. He refused, and the wretched girl told the entire chorus what transpired between her and the newly arrived Opera Ghost, who had made his presence known the previous month, and – according to those imbeciles who attempted to run the place – "haunted" their theater.

Then came Winnie, the following spring, on the same night he found Jacques and his sister. Winnie had been crying, betrayed by her beau. She wanted revenge – so had he, feeling likewise betrayed. Of all the girls in the corps de ballet, with her dark profusion of long curls and deep brown eyes she strongly favored the one woman who had the power to destroy him – and had done so again. That, and his wicked experience with Jolene was what pushed him over the edge into insanity. They came together violently in that filthy corridor, each using the other for selfish gain – to strike out at those who'd hurt them, no matter that their tormentors were unaware. After the deed was done, Winnie, too, expressed a wish for additional meetings, and for three depraved weeks he succumbed.

They came together in shadows, in the little used corridor, later in an abandoned storage room, the Phantom desperate to forget about his night of debaucheries with the young French maid while engaging in the pretense that Winnie was his lost love, before he finally jolted to his senses and ended their shallow, cold-hearted association. She continued to seek him out, walking the corridor late in the nights that followed and calling to him – pleading for him to come to her. Because he did not yield, she also disobeyed his orders never to speak of what happened between them. His indiscretions were spread into some loathsome legend, and even after her dismissal by his order through Madame Giry, other ballet rats walked that same damned corridor late in the night, hoping for a clandestine encounter with the Opera Ghost.

And the intrusive little Giry had been quick to tell Christine all of it her first day there.

The incidents with both dancers were wretched mistakes, though his indiscretions with the little maid was the worst of the lot. In part his actions stemmed from a desire to experience the intimacy and gratification the more deserving of humanity shared; but what lay at the core of each encounter had been no more than a case of blind, animal lust and for all the wrong reasons: Drink. Anger. Vengeance … Desolation. After the fleeting satisfaction of the corporeal act faded, each time he felt revolted with how he used them and how he had been used. To ease the guilt and justify his choices, he bitterly told himself that _she_ had done the same, _and_ _with his enemy – _

But he had been mistaken.

She had not.

And up until minutes ago her innocence had been intact.

God, what had he **done**?

He slammed the flat of his hand against the wall he hurried past.

The warm memory haunted with bittersweet cruelty. He had taken her fiercely, passionately, his urgent need to have her as _his woman, __**as**_ _**his **__**wife**_ pushing against every deliberate restraint he'd built between them, the long-burning desire to possess her controlling him until he no longer could claim rational thought. The experience had been different with her, phenomenal, even before he discovered the shocking truth that shattered what was left of his defenses.

Despite his previous experiences, he had felt untried. Lost in the wonder of being with Christine, with her he did things he never attempted with the others, never wished to. The emotions she set off in him thundered through his soul, infiltrated his heart, her innocent, hungry touch arousing him to a point he could not contain it, and when at last they had come together, he felt as if not only their bodies but _their souls_ were joined!

Dear God, had he but known the truth of her virtue he would never have taken her so ruthlessly at first. Might not have taken her at all, not like this ... She had been so innocent and sweet, so damn reassuring, driving the wedge of his guilt deeper into his weak excuse for a heart. And then the ultimate mistake – in hearing her utter _that_ _name_ in the heat of her climax, he had forgotten who he now was, forgotten why he brought her to this dark dungeon to begin with, forgotten all else but that consummate moment in her arms. He had responded without thinking, speaking the old endearment from his heart, confident that because they were finally in complete union, she would come to love him – the man he was now – and in time become _**his**__ of_ _**her own free will**__. _No longer feeling forced to remain in a marriage she agreed to – just to save that wretched boy!

He had claimed her body tonight, yes, but she withheld from him her heart. In time, he might have been able to persuade her to relinquish that too...

_God, he was __**a fool!**_

He never should have run. He should have stayed. He could have explained away his blunder. He had done so with greater mistakes and comparisons. Smoothly he always was able to deceive her when she brushed too close to the truth. Like those other times, she had sounded uncertain – he could have said _something_ to convince her that his whispered endearment was only another coincidence with regard to the boy she remembered, the boy who no longer existed – who she didn't want. He could have easily resumed the masquerade had he but tried.

But his defenses were completely shattered upon his discovery that she was a virgin. The foundation of his revenge had been based upon the lie that she was not, that she had given herself to that irksome rogue of a viscount and lived as his paramour, slept in his bed – once they rid themselves of the troublesome, gullible gypsy he'd been. And at that moment of stark recognition, to learn that **_he_ _had been_ _wrong_**, what little remained of the chipped wall between them at once demolished into ashes of harsh regret and fearful concern – followed by an ecstasy such as he had never known in the finale of their lovemaking, his emotions for her so damned powerful and gripping, he had not been able to think after his blunder – only to run.

And now, because of his damnable folly as well as his mistake in not separating the reality of his nightmares from the fiction of his dreams, wrongly thinking them two separate entities – _everything_ must change. He could no longer submit to his perverse will to go through with this wretched plan. Not after tonight ... not after she so blindly and innocently had given him her trust, a trust he did not deserve.

She thought him only the Phantom and a criminal, and he was that. She did not desire or want the despised and ridiculed creature she left behind in England, dead and buried, and for that reason alone, he could never let her see beyond the mask. Could not bear her revulsion, or worse, her pretense. No more games – not after tonight ...

... not after he discovered what it meant to love a woman with his entire being – Soul. Heart. Body.

The Phantom let out a harsh sob, dashing away the hot moisture that welled in his eyes, his stride never slowing. He would give her what she most wanted though in all likelihood it would destroy him. It was the only recourse, the only manner by which he could attempt to find some morsel of redemption from her after all of what he'd done, and especially for this latest dark deed from which there could never be a return.

Even as he arrived to that somber conclusion, knowing how difficult it would be to carry out, he entered his chamber through the back entrance of his bedroom...

...and came to a sudden stop.

Christine glared at him from where she sat on his plush coverlet.

Looking like a warrior princess who had just been thoroughly ravished and bedded, her skin damp and flushed, her curls tangled and wild, she regarded him without smiling. Her chin lifted at a proud angle, her dark eyes burning into his in tearful accusation. Her red, kiss-swollen lips drew into a tight line. Somewhat unsteadily she rose from his bed and approached until less than a foot of space separated them. The traces of recent tears ran down both her cheeks.

"My apologies," his voice came gruff but steady, something for which he was astonished as much as he trembled inside. "I did not mean to leave in such haste and without explanation. I heard a noise and felt it detrimental that I investigate, especially after more than one intruder has crossed into these premises."

The lie, like so many others before it, slipped easily off his tongue.

She asked no questions.

She hurled no accusations.

One moment she stood completely motionless, like a mannequin. The next, she moved forward with blunt determination.

Before he could recognize her intent, her hand darted up and snatched the mask completely from his face…

…while the violent force of her action brought with it a snug wig of raven black that pulled away from his dark sable hair.

**x**

Christine dropped her prize and let out a shocked, pained whimper.

"_Erik."_

Upon witnessing the stark truth he could no longer disavow, fresh tears rushed to her eyes. Before he could slap his hand over his grossly distorted features, she threw her arms around his neck and desperately clung to him.

"_My God! - __**You're **__**alive? **__**You're **__**truly here?!**__"_

Her great relief to see him and mind-numbing shock that she had been correct all along twisted into an anguish so vast and intense she stepped back and slapped him as hard as she could across his smooth, handsome, unmarred cheek. His head snapped back from the force of the blow, but other than cupping his hand over the flawed side of his face, he remained immobile, not saying a word.

His resulting silence seemed its own betrayal and only served to sharpen her fury.

"Have you _nothing_ to say…? _Nothing_ in your defense?" She clenched her hands into fists at her sides, feeling ready to splinter into a thousand pieces of angry, weeping femininity. She drew herself up and regarded him with hurt disdain. "No, of course not. _How __can you_ **_defend_** such – such duplicity and _cowardice_ and utter treachery – and again distort the truth when it has been revealed in full, _**with no turning back…?**_"

He winced but still said nothing, and her sham of composure shattered.

"_You heartless, __unfeeling _**_bastard…__!_** How could you _**not tell me**__! How could you __**LIE**__ to me all this time – all these weeks – __**months **__– since __**the **__**very beginning**__? __**The VERY FIRST DAY**__**?! **__**My God, Erik! All of it – LIES ...! **__**WHY…?**__"_

He regarded her gravely. "It was for the best."

At his low, detached words, all of her bitter angst and endless pain of over four years thinking him dead rushed up to drown her soul.

"_The_ _best…?"_she sobbed. "_THE __**BEST?! DAMN YOU FOR YOUR BEST! AND DAMN YOU FOR WHAT YOU DID TO ME BECAUSE OF YOUR HELLISH 'BEST'! Have you no concept of the pain I suffered?**_ _**How could you do this to me, after all those years we once shared…how could you?!"**_

– Blindly she lashed out at him again. This time, he caught her by the wrists. They wildly struggled, with her hurling a string of cutting invectives in the wake of his heavy silence, the searing tears of her wretched heartache and his damnable treachery unleashed in a torrent that refused to ebb.

He hauled her against the hard length of his body and held her tight, so close, with his form molded to hers as if he never wished to let her go.

"This is for the best too," he whispered sadly against her ear.

Before Christine could understand his meaning, he gently pressed his lips to her temple while circling his hand around her neck ... and steadily exerted pressure with his thumb against the wildly beating pulse of her throat.

"_Forgive me..."_

She barely heard his whisper. Her surroundings dimmed, and the fight went out of her as her body went limp and she collapsed in his arms.

.

**xXx**

.

Christine slowly came to, feeling groggy and disoriented. She blinked in confusion when the pink blotches before her eyes came into focus as roses on smooth wallpaper – with no sign of lumpy dark rock ... she had seen that design somewhere before, and then she remembered.

The pink dressing room.

Hurriedly she sat up, tasting bitterness on her lips. Clothed only in her loose silk wrapper, her entire body felt sore, even bruised, the most sensitive areas – the nipples of her breasts, her inner thighs, especially the hidden area between her legs – very tender. And in one staggered breath it all came rushing back to her.

Their night of incredible passion.

Her discovery of his wretched lies.

She had confronted him. He had tricked her – again – somehow caused her to pass out – likely drugged her – brought her back above – he had ... he ...

My God –

**Erik** **was alive! **

_She had been __**living with him**__ in his dungeons for months! __**Married**__ to him for weeks!_

_**ERIK **_was the _**Phantom of the Opera …?!**_

Her breath came fast as the absolute shock of her discoveries registered and settled heavily in her mind, weighing down her soul. Tears again threatened and for long moments all she could do was blink through a hot film of building moisture and stare at the mirror, where he had once come to her.

All those years ...

_All those wasted, horrible, endless years!_

Why had he done it?

Why was she here now?

God, _**where **__was __**he?**_

Christine swiftly rose from the chaise, then put a hand to her forehead, feeling dizzy, and groaned as she sank back down. So many questions revolved inside her mind. But paramount to all of them, she must find him. Must demand answers. How could he do this to her? WHY would he do this to her?

She frowned at the mirror then again rose, more slowly this time, and moved toward it. Near the dressing table sat a trunk that she did not remember being there before, and a quick peek inside revealed her clothing.

So, he was tossing her aside…? Finished with her now that his ruse was up...?

Resentful tears burned her eyes as she fluctuated between disbelief and fury, calling herself a damned fool for succumbing and believing in his endless masquerade when she had sensed it was him that first day – _since the first bloody day_ _she had known!_ – and cursing him as a heartless, black scoundrel for his repetitive lies. Within seconds of that, the power of her tragic love for him surged to the fore, and her strongest desire was to find him and hold him so closely to her as to never let go, never to let anything separate them again –

…until the darkness once more took hold of her mind, reminding her of the hopeless years of agony, and she wanted to make _him_ _suffer_ for all he'd done to her.

Dear God…

Erik_ was alive._

Christine shook her head in confusion as tremendous shock again tingled her senses, and she grasped her throat, as if by doing so she could calm her elevated breathing. A hazy recollection of his hand circling where hers now rested, his thumb pushing with wicked intent against the hollow before her world grew black made her frown.

To what purpose had he put her through such endless torments? Revenge for her foolish talk with Berta? Hatred that she would say such things, even in the heat of her feelings of being scorned by him? Had he planned her punishment for _four entire years?_

That sounded extreme, even for Erik, and she could not fathom what would push him to such measures. Henri had lied, Erik had _not_ been shot, but then she remembered the blood on the cloth mask – the very fact that she _had it in her possession_ – and knew something must have happened to him. _Had_ he really been shot and left for dead? Did he blame her _for that too?_

She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. She did neither and glared into the mirror, wondering if he was on the other side. Wondering if he was watching her even now.

Pressing her palms to the glass, Christine leaned in, trying to see if she could see past the silver surface, but only her pale, desolate reflection looked back. Tears leaked down her clumped lashes from eyes that burned in wounded anger.

"Can you hear me, Erik? Are you in there, spying?"

Hearing his name spoken, coming from her lips, made her choke back a sob as her mind again faced the reality of what she was truly saying: _Erik was_ _alive! _All this time he had_ not been dead, _he had been_ in hiding...!_

Was he hiding from her now?

"Come out and face me, you bastard! Or are you a pathetic coward…?"

Her deliberate insults did not produce the desired effect. The looking glass did not move to reveal an opening. No voice answered from the other side.

"You cannot treat me like this," she whispered, balling up her hand and striking the mirror, pressing her cheek against it. "I won't _let you_ treat me like this…! Why did you do it?" she asked miserably and struggled to quench another heavy sob building in her throat. Regardless, it tore loose and she briefly closed her eyes, attempting to do the same with her heart to fight against the pain.

She pushed at the reflective pane, trying to move it to the side, her fingertips then feeling up and down the sides for a latch when it wouldn't budge. "Damn you!" Twice, she struck the mirror with both fists. "You cannot hide from me now, Erik! I know where you are and _**I**_ _**will**_ find a way to reach you. _**Do you hear me?**_" she threatened more loudly, backing slowly away and looking the mirror up and down. "You _**will**_ face me and explain every bit of this to me! You cannot hide from me anymore! **_I won't let you!_**"

Mirrors were fragile glass and that one was a door – with no wooden backing to make it a viable barrier. Determined, she swung around and grabbed the small chair in front of the vanity. Lifting it, she struck her image – the impact weak, since her strength had not fully returned from whatever potion he had used to drug her. Her pathetic attempt did not make a crack, only an unsatisfactory scratch on the glossy surface. Not quite as fragile as she first thought … the door of glass must be unusually thick.

Growling, her blood boiling hotter with intent, she lifted the chair to strike again.

"CHRISTINE GRENDAHL – STOP THIS AT ONCE!"

The shock of hearing her mother's maiden name linked with hers in fierce command punctured through her angry desperation. Christine paused with the chair raised to look behind her, from where the stern salutation came.

Madame Giry stood in the doorway. The ballet headmistress furtively glanced over her shoulder, to see if anyone had heard, then stepped the rest of the way inside, closing and locking the door behind her.

"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded, walking toward where Christine stood with the chair still held high. "Put that down before you do damage."

"That was my intent."

"And so, you wish all of the opera house to know where your husband resides? Is it also your intent to put him in danger from those who would hunt him down like a wild animal? Once broken, there will be no way to hide that entrance."

The woman's ice cold logic broke through Christine's red haze of fury. As livid as she was with Erik, the last thing Christine wanted was his capture. She had lived through a purgatory on earth these past years without him, thinking she was the reason for his brutal death. Now that she knew his demise had been a sham, she would never do anything that might send his enemies to his doorstep, would fight for his safety in any way she must…

Though once she did confront him again, he might wish for the thick steel bars of a prison cell between them.

With her anger only slightly abated, Christine set down the chair.

"You know about the entrance, then," she stated more than asked. "Will you show me how to get inside?"

Madame looked at her curiously. "You wish to _go back_?"

Christine shook her head in confusion. Why should Madame think she would want to stay here? She had attended Christine's wedding and saw her married to the Phantom…to _Erik_. Feeling a bit lightheaded again by that revelation and leery of saying too much, uncertain what exactly the ballet headmistress knew, she eyed her warily.

"He did not inform me of such an arrangement," Madame explained. "That you would travel back and forth. His instructions were that you are to stay here."

"You saw him - _spoke_ with him?"

"Non. He communicated through his usual method. His notes."

"What were his instructions?" she whispered.

"That you would be returning to us within the week to join us in rehearsals for the new opera. It begins in less than two weeks."

Christine inhaled a stunned breath.

"But surely you knew that?"

No, she didn't know anything of the sort, but then _the Phantom_ had chosen to keep her in the dark in more ways than one.

Christine scowled. "When did he send that note?"

"The first one, two days ago."

"Two _days_?"

Had she been unconscious for so long?

"Tell me, is it – is it still the first day of the new year?"

"Yes. Just past dawn."

So he had brought her directly from his bedchamber to the dressing room. He had planned her stay in the theater _before_ all of what happened between them last night…though his decision as to the abrupt timing of her arrival was in all likelihood because of what followed _after_…

Erik was alive.

Madame eyed her strangely, carefully, as she might observe a cornered wild animal. Under the circumstances, Christine could hardly blame her. She felt entirely capable of wreaking havoc, and almost had done exactly that. She looked at the intact mirror that had nearly been destroyed.

"Beneath the earth it's easy to lose track of time," Christine explained in an attempt not to sound like a madwoman, though she did feel as if she was slowly losing her mind.

"His second note came this morning, alerting me to your arrival. I came to the dressing room, where he said you would be, and found you asleep on the chaise. I did not wish to disturb you, nor do I have anywhere for you to go. I'm afraid there are no empty beds at present. You shall have to bunk with Meg, in the ballet dormitory, until I can make other arrangements."

In her present state of mind, and remembering how they treated her at her audition, Christine had no wish to inhabit a room with a gaggle of inquisitive, rude, gigging girls. She liked Meg, the little she'd seen of her, but had never shared a room with anyone. And she didn't wish to be grilled with a plethora of questions about the past two and half months with the Phantom or her sudden rise to stardom, as Meg or the others were sure to do. An idea formed. She glanced at the mirror then at the chaise longue.

"May I sleep here instead?"

"What? _Here?" _Madame looked around the cheery pink room as if Christine had asked to sleep in a shadowed crypt._ "Your_ _dressing room?_"

"I would prefer it."

"I suppose we could bring in a cot, but it is most unusual…"

"I won't need a cot." She moved toward the long chaise, almost wide enough to fit two people. "Only some bedding – a blanket and pillow, some water to wash with, and this will suit me nicely as a bedchamber."

"The chaise longue was from an old opera, with Cleopatra and Antony," Madame mused. "I suppose it will be comfortable enough, since the manager at the time demanded the highest standard with all stage props, and this was designed for a queen." She still seemed hesitant. "If you are certain. The Maestro gave me no specific instructions as to your sleeping arrangements, but I'm not sure he would approve…"

"I'm certain." Christine narrowed her eyes at the floor-to-ceiling mirror. "It's perfect."

"Very well. I'll have one of the maids bring what you need. You look rather pale…are you able to attend the morning practice, Christine? You won't need to sing yet. I shall only need you for blocking at this time."

She still was a bit woozy, but time on stage might help her momentarily to forget as opposed to sitting alone in this room and brooding over all that transpired.

"Yes, something to eat, and I should be fine…Madame Giry?" she added when the woman nodded once and made as if to go.

Madame arched her brows in question.

"You called me by the name of Grendahl. Might I ask why?"

Again Madame looked at her queerly. "The Maestro wrote in his last note that it is to be your stage name and how you will be addressed from now on. I assumed that you knew?"

"Yes, yes of course. We did discuss it," Christine said, feeling foolish, but it was difficult to have a conversation when she didn't know the facts. "I just wasn't aware that he'd told you." That sounded even worse than the first inanity, and she turned aside, fingering a pearl-handled comb on the dressing table.

"I'll leave you to dress. Meg will be in shortly to show you the dining area reserved for the cast. You will, naturally, not again eat in the servants' quarters or during those ungodly hours they keep."

Christine watched the door close, then hurried to turn the key and lock it. So much had changed in the span of one night…and so much more was destined to change.

She stared into the mirror, her expression grim, her manner determined.

"This isn't over, Erik. Not even close…"

.

**xXx**

**A/N: After all he's done and what they've both been through and the way they've been written, you didn't honestly think this would be resolved so easily did you? lol For any who felt cheated about the E/C confrontation – I assure you, that moment is still to come, building to an even more explosive one than if I'd written it now. Muahahaha. ;-)  
**


	49. Chapter 49

**A/N: Thank you for all the lovely reviews. (Regarding Sherlock: Not to worry, I won't ever intentionally stretch out the wait for this, {which far surpassed the border of the ridiculous for that}. ;-)) Thank you to Maq for the suggestion in your review- I liked it, I took it. And now …**

* * *

**XLIX**

**.**

Madame Giry opened the door to her office and exhaled a breath of frustration mingled with relief to be finished with the morning practice. The moon must have been at its apex last night. The girls had been utterly obtuse and unruly, the most rebellious of them outdoing themselves in their mischief to rile her calm sensibilities. She needed a moment's peace, but in the insanity of this mad opera house she doubted that she would know any fragment of serenity for long.

True to all thought, as she moved to light the lamp on her desk, the darkness came alive in one corner of the room – a shadow that shifted, darker than the rest. She jumped in shock then pressed a hand to her heart when she realized the cause and understood the identity of her unannounced visitor.

"Maestro…?" she queried nervously. "I did not expect you…It is so dark. I should light the lamp…"

The Phantom made no response from the chair in which he sat, only waved his hand for her to proceed. She struck a long match and set flame to wick, afterward replacing the glass globe over the top. Mellow golden light filled the immediate area, slightly illumining his unsmiling features.

She took a deep breath for calm and asked the obvious when he remained silent.

"You wished to speak with me?" Three years in his service and she still could not discern the workings of his mind or understand the methods he chose to relay them. Yet who else but a Ghost would enjoy waiting in the pitch black of darkness and very nearly scaring her unwary soul out of its skin?

"I wish to know, how my … pupil is faring since her return?"

She noted his hesitation before acknowledging Christine and wondered why he chose not to use the more familiar term of "wife" or even call her by her Christian name.

"As well as could be expected."

"That is rather vague."

"Perhaps you should ask her yourself, monsieur. Given our conversation this morning, I am certain that Christine would welcome a visit from her husband."

He stood so suddenly to his feet that she took an unconscious stop backward, reminded again of his feral power that seemed to overshadow all within his vicinity. He did not advance, but the flame from the lamp behind her illuminated the hypnotic gold of his eyes, making them seem to glow. She had never before seen eyes as brilliant and alive, at the same time as dangerous and deadly as those behind the black leather mask.

"Will you now tell me how to conduct my business, Madame?"

His question came low and smooth, a velvet touch to the senses. His voice, too, was a weapon, as deceptive to the listener as it was beauteous – beneath that quiet, melodious tone the threat of violence often lurked. He never had laid a hand on her, but the record of "accidental" injuries and deaths linked to him could not be disproved, and she now regretted her small chastisement in light of his foul mood.

"I only meant that she was troubled to find herself in new surroundings, but I didn't know what to tell her," Madame stated. "She seemed not to be aware of why she should even _be_ at the opera house."

He curtly nodded and directed his attention to the items on her desk. "She will adjust to the new routine in time, if she hasn't already done so." He flipped through a stack of papers.

Madame withheld her contrary opinion of his offhand assessment. "She asked to use the dressing room for her boudoir."

"It _is_ now her private sitting room."

"She means to sleep in it. As a bedchamber."

His eyes flashed to hers. "She means _what?_"

"She wants to use it -"

"I heard you the first time, Madame. There is no need to repeat the information." He scowled and began to pace. "Why would she make such a ridiculous request?"

Madame gave no answer, under the impression that he questioned not her but himself. In the dim lighting she watched his expression change from curiosity to suspicion to aggravation with each thought that locked into his mind, and she wished she could be privy to their full disclosure.

He directed his sharp stare her way. "What did you tell her?"

"I saw no reason to refuse such a simple wish. I needed to divert her from her original intent. When I came into the room, she was attempting to use a chair to break through the mirror door."

The Phantom gripped the outer edge of his cloak near his thigh and swiftly turned his head away so his aide could not see his blatant shock.

The little fool … For what purpose had Christine attempted to destroy the doorway into his world? To expose him? She could do that with the flickering of her tongue if she so desired, in relaying all she had seen and learned – but then, the reminder came to him – there was the boy…

Christine had shown a gentle heart and earnest concern for Jacques' welfare. For the lad alone, she would not relate the Phantom's secrets, of that he was certain. In all likelihood she had engaged in the tantrum only to vent her fury, still enraged by his deceptions, of which she had every right…

He expected no less than her absolute outrage.

"She has asked to speak with you," his aide said, interrupting his rueful thoughts.

"No."

She barely uttered the words before he delivered his quiet retort.

"No? But – what shall I tell her?"

"You will tell her nothing."

"And when she asks yet again to see you and speak with you, as she no doubt will? What am I to tell her then?"

"I said…" He whirled to face her, his cloak snapping about his legs, and took a few steps to close the distance with his index finger held up to make a point. "You. Will tell her. _Nothing_. Not of this meeting with you. Not of any future meetings we have. Not of my refusal to speak with her."

"You wish me _to lie_ to the girl?"

"If that is what it takes. _To_ _Christine_ _Grendahl_, it will be as if I no longer exist."

"You are _her teacher_," she argued. "Surely you cannot mean to separate yourself entirely from her?"

"It will be an arrangement of mutual benefit, I assure you. She will not suffer long if she suffers at all."

The Phantom clenched his hand into a fist at his side, wishing to dull his own pain. It was what she wanted, and he would damn well learn to live without her in his personal Hades. He had done so for over four bloody years.

"But monsieur – "

"Cease to argue with me, Madame! That is not what I pay you for. She has eclipsed my expectations of all that is needed to sing my opera. She has no further use for my coaching, though you must instruct her daily to practice her vocal exercises. As for blocking on stage and any awkwardness she may yet exhibit, that is your responsibility."

The Phantom moved away and stood with his back to her, like a shadow again trying to blend into darkness.

Madame stared hard at him, noting the slip he made. Considering that she had not informed him of the less than stellar practice on Christine's part, she was certain he had been a silent observer that morning – and hardly as disinterested in his protégé as he would have her believe.

Had they quarreled? That would account for the distance he forged. In which case the situation would likely smooth out within the next few days, once they'd each had time to calm down. Both were creatures of tremendous spirit and passion. Even in the short time she had observed Christine, she could tell this. And the new diva was in love with her teacher. Madame had seen it shining from her eyes on the night of her wedding, when Christine assured her that she acted by choice and not coercion. That the Phantom had been struck with the same heartfelt emotion, Madame might have cause to doubt – if not for his current terse behavior and the intense way he stared at nothing when speaking of his absent bride. Through all of his outward efforts not to seem moved he showed instead just how deeply Christine affected him. Their anger would diminish, the need that brought them together would expand until distance was no longer an option – she had experienced and witnessed enough lovers' spats to be assured of an imminent reconciliation.

Just how long the opera house would be subjected to the bitter fallout of their unknown misunderstanding and curt distance was the true concern.

The Phantom snapped his cloak to the side, his steps as always lithe but charged with an undercurrent of ill-contained energy. Much like Christine had behaved during her tense rehearsal. As if both might explode from the wealth of feelings that stirred inside them.

"We will meet, once a week on the night of the last performance." He issued the directive as he again turned to look at her. "You are to keep me informed of her every movement. I want to know who she sees and where she goes…"

"I'm to be a spy, then?"

At the clear disapproval in her tone he scowled. "You would prefer to cease working for me? The monthly stipend I give you no longer holds an appeal?"

Placing the drugged wine in the dressing room and devising plans to get Christine there – not knowing Meg had unwittingly aided in the plot of abduction – had been the worst of all he instructed Madame to do. Keeping an eye on Christine was trivial in comparison.

"Very well, monsieur, I will do as you have said."

"See that you do. As for the rest of the opera, see to it that Monsieur Reyer discharges that pathetic excuse for a second violinist. He has failed to realize that such a prized instrument should not be sawn at with all the finesse of a lumberjack to a log, but the bow should instead touch the strings in a lover's caress…" He picked up the top paper from the stack with notes about the musician and sent it carelessly floating to the floor. The second paper he read then snorted. "Carlotta's days at the opera house are numbered. No matter what foolish little schemes she tries to devise against me, she cannot win, despite her frequent whining to the managers. However, I shall be most eager to put her in her place if that is what she prefers. Unless she agrees to participate in the chorus, _she must go,_" he growled, impatiently crumpling the paper in one hand and throwing it down. The third paper he held a long moment, set it carefully back on the stack, then turned. "That is all for now. We will reconvene in a week's time."

Without further ado, the Phantom walked to the wall and pressed his gloved hand against the planking. To her astonishment, it gave way, and he whisked through a crevice of darkness a shoulders' breadth in size – which soon became solid wood again without evidence an aperture had ever been there.

She blinked, stunned by his rapid departure through a secret entrance she never knew existed, and wondered how many concealed doorways besides the mirror and her office were scattered throughout the opera house.

Curious, she moved to the desk to pick up the piece of paper he had discarded to the top of the stack. The parchment held notes about Christine with a rough sketching of her in costume for the final act.

Madame sighed and glanced at the wall through which he had disappeared.

Perhaps it had been a coveted mixture of survival tempered with greed that first convinced her to consent to this bizarre arrangement, but that was no longer the case. In all the time she provided aid to the formidable Opera Ghost of secrecy and shadow, not once had she seen a shred of humanity or true emotion, which aided her distrust of him – not once, until his marriage to his abducted bride. As the priest had spoken vows of commitment over the wedding couple, she had seen the shine of tears in the Phantom's eyes that held within them a measure of disbelief, as if he had not considered the moment truly possible. Immediately he had blinked away the moisture and vulnerability, but in that moment, as much as she once feared him, Madame felt an empathy for the Phantom. Soon that empathy blossomed into a maternal interest for his welfare that she would never have believed possible.

It was for him as well as for the troubled Christine that she must serve as mediator, in an attempt to redirect the molten feelings each held bottled within for the other and save them from themselves – before the entire opera house became privy to their impassioned explosion.

A dire task and one she did not covet. Just how she was to go about doing so without further stoking the fires of the young diva's bitter rage and his sham of cold detachment – all the while not mentioning any knowledge of his whereabouts or actions to Christine – that was the true challenge in this absurd spectacle the Phantom had produced.

Madame shook her head in weariness and poured herself a tall glass of wine to attain whatever serenity she could seize, wondering if things would ever achieve any degree of normalcy in this theater.

_Mon Dieu…_

Their clandestine lives were far more shocking and complex than the workings of the most scandalous opera! Yet were they to put their experiences on stage and to music, not a soul in the audience would believe it could be true.

**.**

**xXx**

.

For all the good that Christine attempted upon the stage, her months below in learning the blocking of the Don Juan and the basic choreography for each act might have been a snippet from a forgotten dream.

She groaned softly at the memory.

She had rushed forward when she should have tarried, stumbled once when she too swiftly turned, and could not fail to miss the hushed giggles of scorn behind the palms of the cruelest of dancers. No one had laughed outright for fear of becoming the focus of Madame Giry's stern discipline or the light swat of her ever-tapping black cane, which had found its way to a couple of the ballerina's legs in reprimand during the stretches and warm-ups.

"She may have the voice of an angel, according to the Ghost, but she has the grace of a skinny blind cow." The insult was delivered near the end of her first abysmal rehearsal, in a muted tone only Christine could hear.

Lifting her chin and squaring her shoulders, she had again approached her starting position and with grim determination forced all foolish thoughts away from the heartless captor of them – her Machiavellian abductor of the past two and a half months. She had tried to concentrate on the fictional opera, though contrary to her wishes, all of it reminded her of the last several weeks below, especially since it was _his_ opera. Meg had offered an encouraging nod and smile, and that small token of kindness helped to ease some of Christine's tension, though any resulting improvement was hardly considerable.

Grateful to escape further snide remarks from the chorus, Christine now walked along the corridor that took her to her dressing room that would double as her bedchamber. Ignoring the overt stares of rude curiosity from the majority of the workers and the lewd stares of others, she started in alarm when someone grabbed her elbow. Growing up at the Heights with her sadistic cousin had conditioned her to act on impulse, and she swung about with her hand raised to strike back.

"Wait – _Christine! _" Meg shrieked in surprise, instantly dropping her hold and taking a step back to avoid being struck in the face. "It's only me."

Remorseful, Christine dropped her arm to her side. "I'm sorry, Meg. It's a natural instinct."

"Natural? You must have had a difficult life," Meg sympathized. "Did you deal with many hardships while growing up?"

"There were a few," Christine said vaguely, not accustomed to being so candid about her life to those who were still more strangers than friends. She liked Meg but wasn't certain the expressive ballerina could be trusted. And Christine must be careful what she said and to whom, being a fugitive of a murder. She no longer had cavern walls of darkness and obscurity to conceal her from the public eye.

More upset by her circumstances than she wished to admit, Christine turned back to the corridor. Meg fell into step beside her.

"I'm pleased that you've returned to us," she said cheerily.

Christine offered a sidelong glance and what she hoped passed for a polite smile.

"How long do you plan to remain above?"

A good question, and she felt that much more frustrated that she could give no real answer. "I don't know."

"I imagine you must miss him, your husband," Meg whispered, as if the statement needed clarification. "If I was newly married I wouldn't wish to leave my bridegroom for any reason under the sun." Meg giggled.

Not that Christine had been given a choice. Either when living in shadows or being forced back into the light.

They reached the floral-painted, rose-colored double doors of the dressing room, and she turned to the bright and bubbly dancer. "I don't wish to be impolite, but I would prefer to be alone for the next few hours, Meg. It was a rather exhausting night."

"Oh. Alright." The girl's eyes gleamed wider in wicked amusement, and she let out another impish giggle. "I imagine your farewells must have been very tiring indeed."

To allude to an ardent parting had not been Christine's intent, however correctly Meg had guessed the reason, well one of them. At the memory of her passionate encounter with Erik, never far from the boundary of all conscious thought, Christine's skin flamed with inner heat…along with a twinge of embarrassment at the brazen twinkle in Meg's eyes. How could the girl read her so shrewdly? Was Christine so transparent?

"Yes, well… _the journey_ from below is quite taxing."

"Is it far to travel there?"

"His home – _our_ home – is levels beneath the earth. It is quite a long walk," she added, remembering when he led her to the theater blindfolded. The same night as their wedding.

"Beneath the earth?" Meg's eyes widened in fascination. "How astounding…that I didn't know, though I'm sure Maman must have. Well, at least you won't be required to make such a tiring journey every night."

"I suppose that's true…"

"Don't look so sad, Christine. I'm sure you have no cause to worry. He's come above before to visit, and now he has an even greater reason with you as _his wife_. Tell me, though, however will you stand it?"

"Stand what?"

"With someone as thrilling as the Phantom to attend you, how can you stand any length of separation from him at all?" Meg instantly was contrite. "Never mind. I shall plan some fun diversions to keep you entertained."

Had it been anyone but Meg speaking so boldly about Erik, Christine would have been jealous, but she'd grown accustomed to the girl's idealistic chatter and could forgive her for being awed by the enigmatic Opera Ghost. She gave up any attempt to make the evening sound less than it was, when in truth it had been so much more. To her, it was a night of drastic change and instant revelation – when she had lain in the Phantom's arms that she thought never would hold her, and she had become the woman she was sure she never could be…and it was the night she tore away his mask and found the man she thought never to see again.

"Never", it seemed, was an inconstant word, as fleeting as a storm in the turbulence of time, a transient uncertainty in and of itself. In life, there were no guarantees of forever. But now she understood - "Never" also did not apply.

She _would_ see him again.

Of all she had learned that was the truth she held closest to her heart.

Despite the enigma he had become, she knew Erik better than any person existing. At present, he was behaving true to form, as in their past – running to hide and rethink his strategy after his plans crumbled to dust. She had taken him by surprise, unveiling his weakness and gaining a triumph when she hadn't even known there was a war to wage – and clearly she'd upset whatever plans he'd had for her…Why he would even play such a silly and hurtful masquerade she could not begin to understand. Surely he wasn't still upset over what she told Berta! It frustrated her to no end to have so much she wanted to tell him, so much she _needed_ to know, and not be given the immediate satisfaction.

"Christine? Where did you go?" Meg put a hand to her arm, snapping her from her thoughts. "Your skin is so pale, it's white…are you unwell?"

She was surprised her cheeks weren't splotches of crimson as much as she burned with indignation at his unjust cruelty toward her.

"I'm fine. But I should rest. I'll see you at the evening practice."

"Evening?" Meg repeated in surprise. "Will you not be at the afternoon session?"

"Your mother said she must work with the chorus and I'm not to appear until the final practice. I'm to sing then."

She winced at the thought of all those scornful eyes upon her, waiting for her to fail.

"Oh, I see. Well, that will give you plenty of time to recover – to rest your voice and anywhere else you might need it. All due to your long, tiring journey, of course."

Meg grinned slyly, all mischief and giggles again. A tiny smile played at the corners of Christine's mouth despite her best effort to remain straight-faced.

"Oh – go on then. Away with you! Does your mother know what a wicked-minded daughter she has?"

Christine shooed her out and closed the door, reassured by Meg's departing laughter that she wasn't the least bit offended. There was a strange familiarity in Meg's forthright teasing, oddly a comfort after all the strain Christine endured, but once she turned and glimpsed the mirror door, any scrap of cheerfulness faded.

Frowning at her image, she moved into the room and intently scoured the glass, her gaze so heated she was sure she could melt her reflection and see through to the other side. Oh, how she wished that were possible!

"Are you there spying now? You beast… _Answer me!_"

Grabbing a small pillow from the chaise she threw it the short distance at the mirror.

"You truly are _despicable… _loathsome and cruel…"

Her intended string of quiet insults toward her unseen tormentor – who in the moment she despised as fiercely as she loved – halted at a soft knock on the dressing room door.

x

Her heart elevated to thud at her breasts.

_Erik?_

With little breath or conscious thought, Christine wiped the beginning of tears from her eyes and hastened across the room, throwing the door wide.

Immediately she was drawn into a warm, relieved hug. She quenched a surge of disappointment not to see his familiar masked face, but managed muffled words of welcome in a soft blue linen shoulder that smelled of lavender, followed by a smile for her dear friend.

"Christine, thank God you're back. I confess I was so worried when you went missing! And then to come to the theater and be told you had returned – I had to see for myself."

Arabella held Christine's upper arms and surveyed her critically from head to toe, as if searching for something amiss.

"You appear unscathed, and for that I am immensely grateful. He told me he would return you to us, but I couldn't be certain he was telling the truth."

The soft words pierced through the quiet calm that had settled over Christine, and she gripped Arabella above the elbows in a tight hold, eliciting a shocked exclamation from her friend.

"That's right – you were _with_ _him!_" Without delay, she pulled Arabella inside and shut the door, turning the key. Swiftly she again faced her. "You must tell me what happened that day. What did he tell you?"

Arabella blinked in mild astonishment, taken aback by the sudden determination that hardened Christine's demeanor.

"It's him, isn't it."

The words were not a question.

"Him?"

"The Phantom – your Erik. The gypsy boy you grew up with at the Heights. It's him."

Hearing the low words stated so confidently and surprised by Arabella's astute reasoning, this time it was Christine who was taken off guard. She could only stare for numb seconds, her mouth parted in shock. Unwanted tears again glazed her eyes.

"How did you …"

"How did I know?" Arabella finished when Christine went silent, afraid to say more than she should. "I wasn't entirely sure until now. Oh, my poor dear …" Arabella took her hands and led her to the chaise, where both sat down, facing each other. "Your hands are like ice! You must tell me what has you so upset. Did he hurt you?"

"Yes…" Christine nodded then thought twice and shook her head. "No. Not like you think. It's all so confusing and complicated and so damnably frustrating." She pulled her hands from Arabella's and gripped them in her lap in frustration, her fingers and thumb circling her naked ring finger.

"You can tell me anything, Christine. I won't tell a soul."

"What of Raoul?" she asked warily, still on her guard. "Does he know?"

"He tells me very little with regard to his investigation, but he knows nothing of my suspicions. Nor did I tell him of my meeting with the Phantom."

Christine was surprised and grateful to hear it. "It must remain that way," she whispered as though they might be overheard. "Raoul must never know."

As angry and hurt as she felt by Erik's boorish conduct, Christine was still loyal to the memory of the boy she once knew and the man who twice saved her life in his dark tunnels. She could not and would not risk him being discovered by those who meant him harm. And from what she'd overheard in her short time at the opera house, he had countless enemies. Jacques was only an innocent in this and did not deserve …

_Jacques was not his son!_

Her eyes flew open at the delayed knowledge that hit with such impact she sucked in a breath as if she'd been struck in her midsection. Quickly she rose and took a few steps away, her back to Arabella.

"Christine! What's wrong?"

"Nothing, it's…nothing. I…" With shaky hands she smoothed her palms down the front of her skirt, trying to appear nonchalant as she slowly turned back to her friend. "I only just recalled something expected of me, but upon further consideration, I realize the matter has been dealt with." She attempted a careless little laugh that sounded more like the sad croak of a frog and put her fingers to her throat. "Don't mind me, Arabella. My mind is a trifle murky. I didn't get much sleep last night."

_Did his cruelty know no bounds?_

Jacques had been yet another lie of the many he had forced her to consume in his practiced game of deceit to wound her.

Arabella looked at her in sympathetic confusion. "It's a wonder you attain any slumber at all, dwelling in a theater that seems never to sleep – but Christine, would it not be better if Raoul knew the truth?"

"**_No!_**"

Christine forced a calm she didn't feel. "No, Arabella, I'm quite certain that would be a grave mistake. The situation is far more dangerous than if the Phantom were only a stranger. Erik is no longer a wild gypsy boy with little means – he's the Phantom of the Opera and has indescribable power, more than you know. Due to that, and all we've been through in England, he's twice Raoul's enemy."

And ten times more deadly, she thought with a grimace, remembering the horrid water trap and how Erik was ready to let the Vicomte meet his death without a shred of unease or a scrap of remorse.

"I suppose you're right," Arabella sighed. "Though I don't relish the thought of continuing to lie to my cousin."

Christine narrowed her eyes in cautious regard. "You won't say a word? You said you wouldn't tell…"

"Christine, please don't fret. I respect Raoul, but I made you a promise. Anything you tell me in confidence will remain a secret between the two of us. I swear it."

Christine relaxed, for the first time grateful that Arabella knew the truth. The burden had been horrible to bear when she thought she had no confidante who was aware of both his identities, and could commiserate and understand all of what Christine suffered.

"What will you tell him? Once he learns of your return, Raoul will immediately come to see you and demand answers. Of that I'm certain. I'm surprised he's not here already."

"I'll think of something." Christine waved the niggling prospect away, at the moment not wishing to deal with fabricating stories to appease the Vicomte.

"You should know, so that our accounts don't differ, I told him that you saw someone who knew your father and you confided in Madame Giry about what happened to Henri. She then planned your disappearance and you were secreted away, in training."

"Did you? Brilliant..." she said distantly, her gaze again lighting on the mirror. "Better than anything I could have come up with. As you know, I was never that good at deceit." Not like some people who preferred a life built in the midst of a masquerade.

"What happened to you, Christine," Arabella prodded gently. "You seem so different."

Christine's laugh came brittle. "Do I? Well, I suppose that's to be expected." She lifted her hands in confusion. "I don't know where to begin."

"Start with the night you disappeared."

Christine gave a faint nod, looking into the mirror and again wondering if he was there….

"I was resting, where you sit. The Phantom came for me, into this room, …" She waved her hand around the area without revealing the mirror as the doorway, "… disguised as my Angel of Music – I didn't know he was Erik then. Though his eyes, those magnificent eyes, like shimmering flames beyond the mask…I should have known. No, I _must have_ known…I fainted, you see..." She inhaled a short breath, remembering, and gave a shaky laugh. "I was weary, it was late. I thought I was dreaming …"

Her voice grew lower, stronger, as she ceased speaking to Arabella and addressed the unseen corridor beyond her reflection, though she wondered if her indifferent tormentor was there to hear.

"He played a masquerade with me these many weeks – or rather – he played his cruel game of pretense _against_ me. For what purpose, I don't know. The Phantom was the only name by which I knew him. He would tell me no other. Daily, he played his games of deceit and manipulation, lies topped upon lies…and he composed his music…Oh, God, _his music_…"

Her tart words ended on a prolonged, wistful note. The lines between her brows faded as she remembered his beautiful chords, his seductive, rich voice, the manner in which she always felt so attuned to his stirring compositions, as if one with their maker, and the passion of their incomparable duets…

"He taught me to sing. I married him."

Arabella gasped in shock, and Christine broke from her trance-like focus on the mirror and turned to look at her friend. "I did, Arabella. I married him without knowing the full truth of who he was."

"Why would you do that?"

"I … don't know."

"You _don't know?_"

But she did. Yet she couldn't speak of his dark threats or the cold, clinical bargain they made – especially not the reason for it, to save Raoul. Even in confidence, there were things she would not say that could turn Arabella against him. And she needed her for an ally.

"I thought him only the Phantom," Christine continued more softly, touching her wedding ring through her bodice where she'd hidden it on a black velvet ribbon. "I didn't know he was Erik – not until last night, and then only after … only by accident. There were times I suspected it all a ruse, but when I confronted him – even directly asking him if it was so – he staunchly denied the truth, until eventually I came to believe the lie…"

Again she inwardly berated herself for being so quick to succumb, so gullible to fool, no matter how convincing his persuasions.

She again sank down to the cushion and told of her agreement to stay below, without mentioning the children. She omitted the worst moments of her entrapment, also keeping hidden the contained passion that last night had exploded between them and fused them as one. Such occasions were sacred, between her and Erik alone. She could never tell another soul of the intense feelings of hunger he had fired within her blood, nor of the enriching fulfillment that came from being one with him.

Hearing herself speak aloud of her time beneath the earth made the situation more real and less of an illusory imagining. The cloud of shocked disbelief that had earlier glazed her reasoning and muddled her mind – to discover that her beloved Erik, alive and not dead, was the dark and brooding Phantom of the Opera – had slowly begun to dissipate over the course of the day.

"In some ways, he has changed so much," she ended her quiet account. "I suppose the years have changed us both … In other ways he remains as steadfast as the earth and as wild and changeable as the wind, blowing hot then cold, one moment a tempest, then as gentle and sweet as a breeze – but in one matter – throughout all of our years and most recently our weeks shared together – there is one truth, one constancy that I cannot challenge. Can barely even face…" Christine blinked back a sheen of bitter tears and forced herself to say the next words. "It is to my great distress that I have loved twice in my lifetime – two men – who I now know, beyond all shadow of a doubt, are _one and the same being!_ And that faithless man of darkness and disguise has left me, not once – _but_ _twice!_"

"Left you?" Arabella regarded her in gentle puzzlement. "Did he not tell you that he would bring you back here, or explain why he never returned to the Heights? Perhaps he had good reason?"

She shook her head, remembering little of what was said during their last confrontation. She had given him almost no chance to speak, spouting her accusations of angst and anger, though at her hazy recollection he had not been forthcoming with any information when she demanded it of him. Only telling her it was "for the best."

Christine frowned at the recollection. "I…I collapsed, from the shock of discovering Erik there." She omitted mentioning that he had drugged her. "When I came to, I found myself here." She waved a hand to include her surroundings.

"How much you have suffered." Arabella put a comforting hand to her shoulder. "And you learned the truth of his identity only _last night?_ I cannot even begin to imagine what you must have felt. Did he not tell you of his plans to bring you above either?" she asked again.

"There had been some mention of it in past weeks," Christine said evasively, "but I cannot help think that had I never discovered the truth he would have prolonged my stay below." He had told her when she asked him, on the eve before they consummated their marriage, that she was not yet ready to go above. She doubted he had changed his mind so quickly.

The memory of lying in his warm embrace and the discovery of what it meant to become his woman made her physically ache to revisit those pleasures again. Disgusted with herself, Christine stood and moved to the dressing table. Picking up her hairbrush, she attacked her snarled tresses. She wished to feed her fury, not dwell on anything that might make her soften her attitude toward him.

_"I will grant the favor of your request and concede to your wishes to keep the full extent of my 'wicked nightly trysts' from your knowledge…" _

His caustic words of days ago came back to haunt her, fueling her objective.

The unfeeling cad. Bedding all those women…bedding _Jolene! _Sadly, in recalling the girl's words coupled with the familiarity between the two, she knew _that_ was no lie, no matter how she wished it so, and she wondered just how many women he'd taken to his bed. He certainly hadn't seemed to regret her absence these past four years … wandering empty corridors … having trysts with dancers …

"Would you prefer to speak of something else?"

Christine ceased with ripping the brush through her hair and snapped her gaze to Arabella's image in the looking glass. "Why would you ask such a thing? I _want_ to talk about what happened."

"Really? You look ready to commit murder."

She would dearly love to tear out every strand of their hair by the roots. Once bald, the slatterns would certainly lose whatever appeal they held for him.

_How_ _dare_ he tell her again and again, day after day and night after godless, lonely night, that she possessed no outward allure, often making her think she repulsed him! She had certainly proven him wrong and ended _that_ cruel little game of dishonesty – he had been unable to get enough of her…

Or maybe she would claw out their empty hearts instead.

"CHRISTINE!"

She released her death grip on the brush and turned. "What, Arabella? There's no need to yell."

"You frighten me when you get that stony look in your eyes and they flash so darkly … as if you're about to do something quite reckless and foolish. Tell me that I'm mistaken and I only imagine it."

_Her_ imagination had proven to be quite sound, not an imagining at all. Not a foolish whimsy created by a guilt-ridden mind, like he tried to make her believe…

Erik of the Heights.

Phantom of the Opera.

From that first day she found herself as his captive, deep within her being she had recognized truth and seen beyond his masquerade. How could it be otherwise? Her soul knew its mate, even if her mind had been tricked into believing a lie.

Carefully she set down the hairbrush and faced her friend.

She would not be dismissed, denied and ignored a second longer. This was a new year and a new beginning. No matter what title _he_ chose to go by, there was only one name of import to her that she now possessed. Regardless of how she attained it, she was his _wife_, and that would never change. In this, the term "never" would remain a constant.

She would see to that.

"I want you to take me to the entrance you found that leads into his tunnels, and I want you to take me there now."

.

**xXx**


	50. Chapter 50

**A/N: Thank you for the sweet reviews! :) I'm glad the majority enjoyed it! ...Who says no more sexcapades are coming? lol If you believe that, then you don't know my writing at all! ;-)…Patience, friends. Enjoy the easy-paced lulls as well as the sharp turns & plummets. A roller coaster would be no fun without the stretches of calm in between before the next seemingly bottomless dive …and now….**

* * *

**L**

**.**

"Christine, I'm not sure this is wise…"

Arabella's words tumbled uselessly away, bouncing off her impulsive friend's back as Christine hurried ahead on the forest path leading to the cave with the hidden door.

"It will be fine," Christine threw over her shoulder. "You'll see. Is it over this rise?"

"Yes – that is, if memory serves me correctly. It's been _two_ _weeks_, Christine. I could be wrong. It was sunny, with no snow on the ground. The area looks somewhat different than I remember, and when I left his caverns it was near twilight…" She might as well talk to the tree squirrels for as much attention as she was given.

She only hoped they were not well and truly lost.

They walked amid a thicket of dense hardwoods, scattered with firs, the sky overcast but the weather clear. The piercing cold served to bring clarity of mind and sharpen senses, impelling the need for swift movement, but Arabella would much rather be sitting by a crackling fire in a cozy room with a thick-pile rug to cushion her stocking toes. Not trudging through slushy, snow-laden leaves on a reckless quest to find an elusive, antagonistic Ghost.

Yet she felt she had no choice.

Arabella had not observed such fire and spirit in Christine since before Erik's alleged death. Ever since she visited her in the pink dressing room laden with roses and angels she noticed the change and commented on it, though Christine had misunderstood and thought Arabella observed only the negative aspects of her character – the confused hurt and bitter anger – and there was that.

But there was also a contagious vibrancy, that same breathlessness that enlivened to be in proximity to the spark and energy that once composed and again revisited her friend. Throughout four years Arabella had weekly lit a candle at chapel and prayed to see this day. The dead had come back to life – in both Erik and Christine – and it was because of that she reluctantly agreed to this plan of reckless pursuit, though the Phantom had warned her never to come near his territory again.

To see the vivid hope shine from Christine's eyes the entire time they traversed the city and now to see that hope burn brighter the closer they drew to the secluded entrance was worth any icy threat Arabella defied.

Once she tied another long snippet of red cloth to a low branch, thankful she'd thought of the idea to help mark their way in the wintry landscape, she caught up to Christine, who had begun to move more slowly.

"I never realized his home underground was so huge that it spread into the outskirts of the city." She reached for and clutched Arabella's arm.

Arabella looked her way. "Christine – why are your eyes closed?"

"I'm trying to imagine the network of passages beneath and the trek we took twice – but on second thought, I suppose it's silly to try and compare where we would be underneath, as I don't know what direction we were walking then, since I was blindfolded." She let out a breathless laugh. "But with the smoke from the fires for the baths rising from the hole in the ceiling, we couldn't have been inside the city for fear someone might see…"

"Wait –" Arabella turned, Christine's hand falling from her arm. "You were _blindfolded_?"

"Yes…no, don't look at me like that. It's not as bad as it sounds. I agreed to it."

Arabella shook her head apprehensively, curious into what sort of madness she was taking Christine back to. Fires? Baths? A home underground? Not to mention the deadly trap near the entrance…

"I don't like the idea of you going inside alone. I told you, he had his hand _around my throat_ – this could be dangerous."

Christine smiled to reassure. "That's exactly why it's best I go alone. He would never physically harm me, but gets upset at the idea of strangers who trespass and really doesn't know you at all. You saw him once and briefly in England. When I fell from the tree, and you said he was very bitter toward all of you. And this second time he threatened you if you should return.…"

_Not the second, the third,_ Arabella corrected silently.

Two weeks ago had been her third time to confront Erik.

A twinge of guilt haunted Arabella that she'd never told her friend of his breaking into the bedchamber to carry a feverish Christine away, or of the afternoon Erik visited The Grange while Christine convalesced from the hound's bite, even boldly coming to the front door to see her. The hood of the cloak he'd worn had hidden his makeshift black mask, but to no avail. The butler ordered him to leave, closing the door in his face, but Erik's boot had lodged between lentil and door to stop it from being shut. That was when Raoul appeared, Arabella with him. Her cousin had succinctly and haughtily told Erik to leave, stating that Christine was well but the doctor prohibited outside visitors. Erik had not believed him, and Raoul threatened that if he did not return to The Heights at once, he would throw him off the land and see to it that Henri prevented his presence at The Grange again. Once Erik stormed away while issuing a curse upon their household, Raoul cautioned Arabella that they shouldn't tell Christine of the visit so as not to unduly upset her and hamper her recovery. Having seen the wild temper of the gypsy servant, Arabella agreed, and when Christine later asked if she received visitors, Arabella went along with Raoul's plan for silence. A plan she dearly came to regret. She soon understood how close the two from The Heights truly were, and especially after Erik's supposed death which led to Christine's demise from reality, she felt horrid about keeping the truth – and keeping Erik – from her ill friend.

"Christine…" Arabella kept her focus directly on the path ahead. "There's something I must tell you, something that happened in England. It's been preying on my conscience for some time…"

Once again Christine clutched her arm. "Is that it?"

Arabella looked to where Christine pointed. Among the thick cover of trees a gray mound of rock stood as tall and wide as a carriage house and was covered by tangled shrubbery and a thick patchwork of vines. Thankfully, they had only strayed off course a short distance, since the cave was now to the right and not the left.

"Yes, that's it."

"See? We weren't lost at all! You're a wonderful guide." Christine's dark eyes sparkled and she clapped her gloved hands together in excitement. "I want to hear what you have to say, of course, but can it wait? I can think of nothing else right now but getting inside and finding Erik."

Arabella nodded, a resigned calm settling over her. "Of course."

Somberly she watched as her animated friend again hurried ahead, almost at a run. There would be time for delayed confessions later. Right now she must do what she could to help mend the present separation. No matter that she wasn't entirely sure how she felt about Christine's relationship with Erik or if it was truly safe, she owed Christine that much. Had they not forbidden Erik entrance to The Grange four years ago, there might have been no misunderstanding between the tragic pair, (as Christine sadly told her had occurred during her recounting of Erik that long ago night on their return from France). Likewise, the succession of tragedies that followed might never have happened. If Raoul and Arabella had just opened the door to Erik that day – or at least been honest with Christine – they might not be here now, trudging through icy slush and dim forest. And Christine might not be struggling with every ounce of strength within her frightfully slim form to return to her beloved gypsy-turned-ghost.

Arabella sighed. The entire situation with the Phantom of the Opera really was the most unimaginable state of affairs, his plots and ploys far exceeding any amount of mischief she produced at the ladies academy.

But – oh, what a horrid nest of quandaries one well-intentioned omission could create!

"You said the lever to disable the trap is fifteen paces inside – oh, I think I see the door!"

Christine's excited words filled the brisk air as she impatiently pushed aside vines to expose the rusted keyhole and lock.

"Yes – but remember he told me he might put another trap in place, one more sinister," Arabella reminded her headstrong friend, to no avail. "Those were _his_ words."

"Yes, but given how busy we were in the days that followed your visit I doubt he's had time to craft it – it would be quite elaborate. I should think one would take weeks to build…Now, the key is buried beneath a rock? This one?" Christine looked up for affirmation. At Arabella's resigned nod, she grabbed the rock, tossing it aside. Dirt soiled her beige leather gloves as she dug a shallow niche into snowy mud and retrieved the iron key. Her smile rivaled the brightness of the clear gray sky. "Fate is finally smiling my way! Oh Arabella, to think I shall soon be with him again…I only need to avoid any corridors that aren't lit," she said to herself as she stood to fit the key in the lock. "But that shouldn't be a problem…"

Suddenly she froze.

"What is it?" Arabella asked suspiciously.

"Nothing…it's nothing."

Christine hesitated, a forgotten incident falling into her jumbled mind. He had told her no other intruder would ever get inside. When she asked if he laid another trap, he had smiled wickedly, confirming Arabella's warning. But he _had_ been with her most of the week that followed, training her for the opera, and there _must_ be some safely lit passage for Jolene to use in order to go to market three times a week; and today was a market day.

Yet even if he had made the way unsafe – even if Christine must stand on the outskirts of a dark corridor and call out to him – she would do it.

Arabella heard her sing when she stood in the cavern and told her it was part of what persuaded her that Christine was faring well and to forfeit the search. If sound carried that great a distance within the hollow cave walls – and she remembered his seductive voice following her when she fled from him – the Phantom would surely hear her call out no matter where he was in his hidden tomb. If he thought her life in danger, based on previous experiences, he would drop everything and hurry to help her. Oh, he would be livid by her ruse, but in that matter they would be on equal footing…

…since she was just as angry by his.

"There are _other_ traps inside, aren't there?" Arabella asked, her tone insistent. "Raoul returned to the hotel one day, his clothes drenched. He said he fell into a well of water while searching for you, but he was evasive and didn't wish to talk about it. I thought it was just a case of injured pride – but it was a trap, wasn't it? The _Phantom's_ trap?"

Christine remained silent.

"Christine – listen to me. There has to be another way to reach him other than by putting yourself in certain peril!"

"The lit corridors are safe. They have no traps. I know my way around."

A half truth. She knew the areas where she'd been, but his home beneath the earth appeared to be as large as an entire city! The lord of the underworld's own hidden kingdom…with a wry half smile she recalled the gothic tales of her youth and recreating them with Erik, now wondering if his choice of surroundings was deliberate to imitate that. He called himself an ogre, had always thought himself a beast – oh, why had she not been firm with him in her heart's knowledge that she'd found her lost love –

Devil that he was...

"Christine…" She heard the slush of Arabella's footsteps draw nearer. "Don't do this. I should not have given into your plea. We can find another way, I assure you –"

"There is no other way."

Christine turned the key in the lock before her friend could prevent her taking action. With her heart beating fast she pulled the latch, swinging the door outward, the shield of vines that hung low to obscure the weathered planks hampering quick movement…

…and stared in wounded defeat as her world came crashing down around her once more.

"No," she whispered, then more loudly, "NO!"

Moving forward, she slapped the newly made wall of gray brick and mortar hard with both palms, then fisted her hands and struck again.

"Damn you, Erik! You can't do this to me! _You can't_…"

Helpless tears of loss streamed down her face as she battered the impenetrable stone with the edges of both her fists. Despite the leather covering them, they burned from her futile exertions. She leaned her cheek and shoulders wearily against the barricade that kept her from her despicable Angel and Phantom and struck once more.

Arabella's arms wound around her middle, pulling her away. Christine fought to return to the blocked entrance, ready to scratch at the mortar with her nails to dig a way through if she must.

"A pickaxe!" she said urgently, her voice wavering. "Surely somewhere in the props of past operas I can find a pickaxe…"

"CHRISTINE!" Arabella cried in distress, "STOP IT_ -_ I cannot bear to see you like this!"

"Tell me then," she broke free from her hold and swung away, the flow of her tears unceasing, "How am I supposed to be?! Please, TELL ME, Arabella. Because I long to know!"

Her friend shook her head sadly as if she had no answer.

Christine took in a shuddering breath, grabbing handfuls of her hair at the temples.

"I feel as if I am _slowly_ _losing my mind_. In one breath, I burn with so much love for him it makes my heart physically ache to beat, in the next breath, I hate him so much I want to rake my nails down his face. And the memories…" She shook her head sadly. "They come to torment me, one by one, often when I least expect it – memories of a man I thought only an indifferent stranger and I now realize was Erik – **_Erik! _**And that makes all of what happened in those wonderful, horrible memories so much more poignant and twice as difficult to bear. Don't you see? I have to find a way to tear down that wall and _**reach him!**_ The memories never stop, **_and neither will I!_**"

Suddenly her eyes went wide in stunned horror. Feeling faint, she crumpled to her knees in the shallow snow, wrapping her arms tightly around her sides.

"_Oh God!_" she rasped, barely able to draw the next breath.

Speaking aloud of sharp tools to destroy brought a frightful incident to mind –

…involving a beautiful curved dagger that glistened with the Phantom's blood…

Arabella grabbed her shoulders from behind. "Christine, what's wrong? Are you ill? Did you hurt yourself?"

…She had almost killed her soulmate **_by her own hand!_** Had wanted to bury the lethal weapon deep into his black heart to escape him! Had witnessed his total desolation in the hopelessness of his beautiful golden eyes shimmering with tears, and had watched in panicked terror as he helped her along, his hand clutching hers, until the point of the blade pierced his skin.

"I'm going to be sick."

Christine leaned over to retch but only coughed and heaved air in uncontrollable spasms until her throat burned and her chest ached dreadfully. There was no food in her stomach, she'd had no interest in breaking the fast and had felt this same horrid queasiness the first time the Phantom used whatever evil potion he created to drug her…

- Dear God, she had almost **_killed_ **_him! Killed **Erik!**_

"It's alright," Arabella soothed, though Christine hysterically knew her condition was far removed from such a tame, gentle word. "Nothing cannot be undone. Do not lose all hope."

She could not seem to breathe right, her breaths coming in and out in short gulps and rasping sobs.

"Christine, you mustn't take on so…it's nerves, I think, due to the strain of all this. Something similar happened to me when I was trapped after midnight on a third-story roof outside a locked turret window at the academy and almost fell. I panicked, but when I closed my eyes and took slow, deep breaths, I was able to regain calm and find my way out of my predicament."

Being held in her friend's lavender scented arms and hearing her quiet reassurances did help to ease her distress after a time - _Erik was still alive_ - and reminded of that, and how she had at least then begged him not to carry out his horrific plan, Christine began to breathe more naturally...the horror of her own actions not entirely gone, but diminished, and after a short while elapsed she felt steady enough to offer a quiet reply.

"You were quite the mischief-maker. Perhaps also a bit reckless when you wanted something badly enough?" She wiped the tears from her face and managed a faint smile. "Perhaps you still are, in coming to the cave alone and searching for me?"

Arabella laughed shortly. "Yes, alright. You win. I'm not one to be casting stones at your impulsive nature. Perhaps we both, the pot and the kettle, shall never be more than black, but there's nothing more to be done here. And the time for your rehearsal is soon at hand."

Christine wanted to protest but Arabella was right about the need for her return. However once she again stood to her feet, she slowly walked back to the blocked entrance as if drawn there by a force she could not control.

"Christine…" Arabella softly cautioned.

Grimly she nodded. "I know."

Again her thoughts took her to that day with Erik and she wondered why he never revealed his identity, even then, _especially_ then, ready to let her sink that awful dagger into his flesh and surrender this world for a shroud of death. My God, what _had_ _happened_ to him? His behavior was in complete opposition to the boy she once knew, who struggled and fought for every scrap of his life and threatened all who endangered that. She thought she'd known him, thought she'd known herself…

Did she really know anything at all?

"Do you think I'm going mad again?" she asked, almost in a whisper.

"I never thought you were mad before."

"Come now," Christine shook her head and let out a dismal chuckle, looking askance at her friend. "We both know differently. I sat in a chair and stared into a black void of nothingness for a year. It was the only world my mind inhabited. _Everyone_ at The Grange thought me mad. I heard the servants whisper it… and your friends…they _all_ thought me mad and told you to commit me to Bedlam."

"You heard that?" Arabella asked in shock. "You never told me!"

"There were snippets of conversations that entered my mind at times, though I was always in that void." Christine managed another shaky smile and looked back at the wall of brick. "I remember you and Raoul arguing over who would stay with me in the garden to read to me. You both wanted to, though for the life of me, I cannot understand why."

"Exactly that. For _the life_ of you. You are more than a friend, you are like a sister to me, and Raoul still cares about you a great deal."

That was exactly what Christine feared.

"He was livid with worry when he discovered you went missing, and left England straightaway," Arabella continued when Christine remained silent. "We never thought you mad. Neither Raoul, nor I. You were in mourning, still incredibly weak from your illness, barely recovered from the last high fever and that awful cur's bite. Your condition was understandable."

Christine absently rubbed her sleeve where it hid the scar. "Sometimes, when the darkness closes in, I fear it could happen all over again, and how easy it would be to slip back into that void…"

At her distant words, Arabella grabbed her by the arms, whirling her around and shaking her, much to Christine's surprise. Arabella's gray eyes were full of determination fired by fear.

"Stop this talk at once! Erik is alive, Christine. _Alive_…There is always a chance of reconciliation, missing before, when you thought him dead. And you have your music, a dream you both shared that is now being realized. I know things still seem bleak, but not even a day has elapsed since he left, and returning you to the opera house was _his idea_ all along. He said that when you were ready, you would rejoin us. I'm sure you'll see him again. You only need to _be_ _patient_."

Encouraging words, and Christine might believe all of them. Except that Erik had told her on the evening life again changed, before he rid himself of her, that she was _not_ yet ready to go above.

"You sound as if you're in favor of us together. Earlier, you didn't sound so certain..."

A flush of guilty red colored Arabella's face, making Christine curious.

"I might not fully understand why you want to go back to him, given all he's done, and I cannot tell you that I'm totally won over to your way of thinking, but I see that being with him is what brings you happiness. I want that for you. And your safety."

Christine intently looked at her. "He's my husband. More than that, he's my life. It always has been that way, even when I thought him dead…but Arabella, even in his cruel ruse, he has _always_ protected me. He would never willfully harm me. Of that I am certain."

Arabella distantly nodded, and Christine wished to know what her friend was thinking.

"When we first arrived you had something you wanted to tell me. About England."

"That can wait." Arabella brushed the dusting of snow from her velvet skirts. "Our return to the Opera House cannot. The temperature feels as if it's dipped ten degrees! At least I marked the way with those fragments of red cloth so there's no chance we can get lost going back."

Christine did not persuade her to speak, her current dilemma enough of a strain. She wasn't certain she could bear more taxing news at present, and Arabella's tone had been hollow when she first spoke of whatever troubled her, as if what she had to say would only bring further misery.

With one last frustrated look of despair toward the blocked entrance, Christine closed and locked the door, slipping the key into her glove.

Every plan of escape failed her when she was trapped within his underground world. Now it seemed that every struggle to find her way back inside his hidden caverns was doomed to failure as well. But Erik was alive and close – Christine could not quit trying to find a way back to him, anymore than she could cease to breathe.

And she had no intention of implementing the required ladylike patience to wait for Erik to let go of his wretched vendetta and seek her out, something that may never happen.

_**x**_

No one confronted Christine or Arabella on their return to the Opera House, and thankfully they reached the dressing room in peace.

Christine removed her cloak and gloves, secreting the key within one of them. For what purpose she kept it she didn't really know, except that she wanted it. She took a seat before the trio of mirrors in preparation of readying herself for the dreaded rehearsal. Not as elaborate or beautiful as the carved dressing table that awaited her underground, and made of a paler wood, it nonetheless served her nicely. She glanced at Arabella's image in the center oval.

"I cannot begin to thank you for all you've done. Today would have been much more difficult had I suffered through it alone."

"I'm always here – as confidante or ally – and I'm truly sorry things didn't evolve as you wished." Arabella withdrew something from her reticule hanging over her wrist. "Perhaps this might help cheer you." She unfolded a square of white linen and held it out.

Christine gasped to see her treasured locket gleam in the soft cloth. She blinked a film of tears from her eyes.

"I went to The Heights when Joseph wasn't there," Arabella explained before Christine could ask how she retrieved it. "I found it in your room and recalled how special it is to you."

Christine remembered removing the silver locket, along with her dress and petticoats, in lieu of her bath that horrible afternoon. Not wanting to recall what followed she instead recounted her memories of the gift. "Papa had it hidden away for my twelfth birthday. Berta found it and gave it to me after he died, but it shall always serve to remind me of Erik."

She smiled in bittersweet memory. "The clasp was weak, or perhaps I was too rowdy in my play. I cannot count the number of times he would mend it after it broke. Or he would find it after I lost it, usually in the hayloft where I often visited and we would talk and stare up at the stars. As my love for Erik grew, I would look at the heart on the chain and think of him."

Looking at the simple locket now, she swept her finger over its cold, smooth surface then impatiently brushed away a tear before it could run down her cheek. At this rate, her eyes would be as red as blood for her upcoming rehearsal – she simply must cease with all this crying! The pitiless fiend certainly didn't deserve her tears.

She tested the clasp to be assured of its strength then laying it in her lap, she put her hands behind her neck to unknot the strip of velvet and pull it from inside her dress.

Arabella gasped when she caught sight of the ring. "It's lovely! Perfect for you."

"Yes…" Christine ran her thumb over the unpretentious gathering of small diamonds, recalling how stunned she was at the Phantom's selection, thinking it ideal. But then, Erik had always known that she preferred simple elegance to the bulky and ostentatious.

Slipping his ring over her finger that silently told the world she was a bride, and her bruised heart that she was _his_ bride, she admired how well it suited her hand. With a sigh of frustration, she slid the band off then over the chain, letting it fall to clink against the silver heart.

"I wish I could wear it as it's meant to be worn, but of course that's impossible and would only invite a host of meddlesome questions I have no idea how to answer. So I wear it where no one can see…" She held the chain out to Arabella with both hands. "Do you mind?"

Arabella took the locket and stood behind Christine to slip it over her head and around her neck. As the chill metal trickled against her skin, another memory took her unaware – this one from her past – of Erik in Arabella's place, dropping the locket around her neck on the last occasion when he had again mended and returned it to her…

"_Try not to lose it this time," he whispered the gentle scolding in her ear, sending a warm surge of tingles beneath her skin._

"_Don't be daft, Erik. It isn't that _I try_. Can I help it if your blacksmithing skills aren't up to par?"_

"_Is that all the thanks I get for squeezing that fool chain together again?" he complained, even while his long, slender fingers playfully tightened around her neck for the mock insult and he lightly shook her, acting as if he choked her. "I'll have you know I created a better fastener to exchange for that pathetic excuse of a clasp."_

_She giggled, bringing her hands up over his and keeping them there. "You know I'm grateful – and fine, you're a wonderful blacksmith – even if you really aren't one. Though you'd be as good with that as you are anything else you put your hands and mind to. You like to invent __–_ consider the continual mending of my chain good practice." He slowly shook her by the neck again, making her smile. "I know! You can be a blacksmith composer, who makes musical instruments of the purest silver that carry the richest, clearest tone over the whole of the moors…" Carried away with the idea that came out of nowhere, she giggled again – then squealed when he snapped his teeth near her ear as if he might bite her.

"_A blacksmith composer?" he scoffed. "As if such a trade exists!" _

"_So, make it a trade." She shrugged. "And anyway, I don't know or care to know all the trades and skills out there or what they do. Only those most important."_

"_Right." His tone had been amused. "Singing and dancing … just so you know it, a blacksmith creates iron shoes for horses…"_

"_Well, I do know THAT__ much!"_

"…_Since I consistently mend that chain of yours, perhaps I should consider you a pony to be shod?"_

_She spun around at his teasing words and took an irate step back._

"_Tell me you are NOT__ calling me a horse!"_

"_God knows you don't run like one. But perhaps I WILL__ make an instrument of silver, to help increase the speed of the slothful and the weak of limb – "_

"_Oh!" She rushed a step toward him but he just as swiftly backed up, evading her furious punch to his chest. "I can run fast, maybe not as fast as you – but my legs are strong and as long as yours now – well, not really, but they're not supposed to be, are they? Since I'm a girl and you're a boy – A VERY__ RUDE, MEAN-SPIRITED,__ IRRITATING BOY__!__"_

_His continual wicked chuckling as she spoke only agitated her ire further and she lunged again, barely catching him on one of the muscled arms he held over his not so boyish, broad chest. _

_"WEAK, am I?"_

"_My dear Little Angel – did I say I meant __YOU__?"_

"_As if you did not. I know you better than that, Erik!"_

"_Consider the running good practice – for your skill in wanting to be a dancer. Though you do have a long, __LONG__ way to go to be fleet of foot!"_

_Laughing harder, he whirled and ran – a lithe, wild creature born to the moors – with her hurling useless threats of what she would do to him when she caught him._

_In a field of wildflowers, he slowed to let her catch him and she grabbed him around the waist. They fell, rolling together in the grass, with him chuckling and grabbing her arms and wrists, evading her slaps and punches, which lessened as she also laughed – until she sat atop his stomach and raised her arms to the cloudless blue sky, loudly declaring herself the victor in their scuffle. That lasted as long as it took for Erik to catch his breath – then in one swift move she was never sure how he executed, Christine lay beneath his hard body, and he was stretched out over her, his forearms planted on either side of her shoulders, his face inches from hers, with bits of wild grass clinging to his hair. Breathless, she waited, hopeful he might kiss her. But after an eternity of seconds of looking into her eyes, he broke the strange tension, moving up to tickle her ribs and repeating the scornful words, "Blacksmith composer!" until she begged for his mercy, breathless from the gales of laughter he wrought … _

_Two months later, she at last received her wish for his kiss in the hayloft, though she'd been the one to instigate the moment … a moment he then prolonged… and one too wretchedly short in the extensive annals of time._

Such memories once brought untold pain, when she thought Erik dead and beyond her grasp.

Now, to know he was alive, that snippet of bygone happiness created a glimmer of hope that she might experience carefree days with him again. And nights of passion, like the one so recently shared.

Christine's eyes fell shut as she struggled to forget the feel of his mouth and hands on her flesh, her needy skin pressed to his, the incredible oneness they had known…

At any time in these past four, eternal, impossible years, did he ever once recall those sweet days and look back on any of those times of their childhood together? Did he _ever_ _once_ think of the many things they were never given a chance to accomplish and feel regretful that he'd made such a foolish decision to walk away and leave England? More recently, did he think of last evening and how wondrous it had felt to be so close, their heartbeats connected, swift, and beating as one…?

Instead, he chose to escape, to leave her and haunt the rafters of this Parisian theater, a belligerent and arrogant Phantom spying, unseen, on all that happened within his self-entitled domain.

_You may run from me, Erik, but I shall catch you. I shall always catch you. I'm no longer the weak little girl you left behind…and you are neither dead nor a ghost._

Physically, she might not yet be as strong as she wished. But her resolve was iron-clad. And none of his cruel devices or vengeful games would stop her.

An idea surfaced as she stared into the floor-to-ceiling mirror while an unusually quiet Arabella fluffed Christine's ringlets back in place. A slow smile lifted the corners of Christine's mouth, and confident again, she tucked away her treasures that now both dangled from the silver chain to their resting place over her heart. She would need Meg's help, but surely the young dancer, who seemed keyed up for any adventure involving the notorious Phantom of the Opera, would be swift to aid her and keep their actions secret…

A sharp knock at the dressing room door startled her out of her hopeful musings.

"Christine?" Raoul's firm voice came from behind the door. "Are you in there?"

She froze then turned quickly on the chair, meeting Arabella's eyes, which were likewise both guilty and anxious.

**xXx**


	51. Chapter 51

**A/N: Thank you! :) I have heard your cry for more Erik. I hadn't planned to bring him back yet, but I figured a way it would work and not hamper my plot. I almost feel sorry for him, after reading your reviews- lol- but I'm not surprised. I showed all of Christine's pain and suffering through her POV during those 4 years. I chose not to show the entirety of Erik's- yet- and for a few reasons. ...And now…**

* * *

**LI**

.

"You don't have to see him yet if you're not ready," Arabella suggested quietly. "Mention the evening rehearsal. Say you are weary and need rest. He'll understand."

Even as Arabella offered plausible excuses, Christine rejected each one and shook her head. "I want to get this over with. There is so much I have to confront in my life. At least I can put _this_ behind me."

"Christine?" Raoul knocked a second time.

Arabella's gaze was sympathetic as she moved to let him in.

"Arabella- wait!" Christine gripped the curved edge of the vanity table. "You _will_ stay? If I make a blunder in the story you created I might need you to give me aid."

"Of course." Arabella offered the barest trace of a smile for encouragement, evidently as uneasy as Christine, before opening the door to her cousin.

Raoul swept in with all the aplomb of a captain who had just reigned victorious in battle and found a family member who'd been held prisoner by the conquered enemy. Closing the distance before Christine could think of what to say, he dropped to one knee in front of her, grabbing both of her hands she held clasped in her skirt.

"Christine, my dear, you had us so worried! Where have you been? Are you alright? You look pale. Have you been ill?"

Arabella turned aside, casting her attention away from them and to the patterned rug. Christine could not prevent her anxious eyes from wandering to the full-length mirror.

Was he there now, spying on them…?

_"You must __**swear**__ to me never to seek him out again. Never even __**to **__**see**__ him again when you are above. If you do, if you go back on your word, I will kill him."_

The Phantom's words came back to haunt her, brutal in their clarity. She snatched her hands from Raoul's, holding her fingers at her stomach.

"I'm fine, Raoul, really. You had no need to worry."

"No _need?_" he repeated in sheer disbelief, wincing at her curt rejection of his touch. "You disappeared from the opera house in the night – from _a locked room. _No one knew where you had gone or where to find you!"

"Madame Giry knew," she insisted. "Had I known you would learn of my absence, I would have had her send a message informing you of my plans, so that you wouldn't be concerned. But I had no idea you left England or that you would come to France searching for me."

Her words came stiff, her tight clench on her fingers also a clue to what a bad liar she truly was.

"Where have you _been_ these many weeks, Christine?"

"With a friend of Madame Giry's. A – a teacher of voice. He taught me what I needed to know to sing in the opera."

He looked at her in growing suspicion. "I am well aware that you have a beautiful voice, I have been most fortunate to hear it, but why should they hire you to sing the lead when they never heard you?"

"Never heard me? What do you mean?"

"We were told you would not sing for the audition."

"I asked for a private audition, later," she said impatiently, "away from the chorus. Madame granted it. She heard me sing."

"As did the Phantom."

"Wh-what?" She blinked then swallowed at his grim words, her mouth suddenly dry. "I don't know what you're talking about, Raoul."

"The Phantom of the Opera. The fiend that many of the cast said took you."

"I don't know why anyone would say such a thing." She glanced at the long mirror then at her hands before forcing herself to look into his eyes. Clear and blue, they now held nothing but concerned confusion. "I made the choice to go, Raoul. I had no other choice."

"You were forced_?_" He surged to his feet as if ready to search the entire opera house stone by stone. "That beast _forced_ you to go with him…?"

"No, I didn't mean that," she hurried to say. "I chose to stay with _my teacher_. No one _forced_ me. I was afraid they would learn who I was. And what I did…"

"Raoul, let her be," Arabella interrupted softly. "It is as I have told you."

He turned his attention to her. "You are not concerned in the slightest? After all the devastation you have heard the Phantom has caused? And now he is singling Christine out to be his star!"

Christine took a steadying breath. "How did you reach that conclusion?"

"One of the little dancers – Jammes – told me of a note that was read aloud to the managers and all the cast in the theater, after yet another disrupted rehearsal from the Opera Ghost, stating he had found a new lead. Since you are now in the title role, it does not take a genius to deduce the facts. That villain picked _you!_"

Genius…villain…teacher…lover…

Christine shook her head a little, forcing it away from the trap of dwelling on Erik and what he had become to her.

"I told you, Raoul, Madame hired me, with the _managers'_ approval. I don't know about any Opera Ghost making a demand for me to sing." She swallowed nervously, wishing the lie away. But to keep everyone safe, there was little she could do except fabricate a story.

"Why should he pick you, a newcomer to the troupe, out of all the other seasoned chorus – and why should you suddenly be willing to sing? I have tried for years to ask, persuade, even _beg_ you for one song to entertain friends – but each time you refused."

Christine straightened her spine, all nervous hesitation falling away from her as angry disgust now charged her words. "Can you not be happy for me that I again _wish_ to sing? Does it matter how or why I have decided to take back the dream that Erik and I once shared?" Seeing his pained wince at the mention of her dark Angel, she spoke more carefully. "Being in the theater revived that part of my soul I thought had died. _Being here_ gave me the desire to sing and share my music again."

That part was no lie; she had sung on an empty stage before she even knew of Erik's existence at the theater. Upon recalling the curtain that stirred at the end of her poor aria and his later admission to hearing her sing, she now wondered if her heart had sensed her soul mate truly there and her spirit had compelled her to reach out to him through her voice.

"I _am_ pleased," Raoul reassured her softly, his manner now one of gentle remorse. "I have wanted you to find that part of yourself again for some time. But the Phantom also has heard you sing, Lotte. He has _singled you out_ and obviously is _watching_ you. I don't like it. He's evil and dangerous, skulking about unseen. I have heard stories of his exploits that would terrify you, and I cannot ensure your safety while you remain. Perhaps you should not even be in this opera, and this whole plan was a mistake."

"No, Raoul. I made a promise to sing."

"Then stay with us at the hotel."

"No, I shall remain here."

"But why?"

Christine's solemn gaze strayed to the mirror. She wondered again if he spied on them now, if he even _still_ _cared_ enough to spy on her, before she had the good sense to look back to her lap so Raoul would not notice where her attention so often strayed.

"It would be easier for me to stay here."

"But not safe. Not from all I have heard."

"The rehearsals start early and go on all day –"

"My driver can bring you to and from the theater as needed –"

"With no proof to support anyone's stories of the Phantom's exploits and Christine back here with us, I really think we should just let the matter go," Arabella interrupted the quiet argument, much to Christine's relief. "I mean really, cousin. Disappearing from a locked room? You didn't actually _believe_ that _a ghost_ took her, did you? Christine's story makes so much more sense."

He did not return Arabella's tight laugh.

"The Phantom is no ghost, but a man, Arabella. A _demented_ excuse for a man who has created trouble for the past three years. I don't like the way things are running in this theater, since the _Opera Ghost_ made his appearance – accidents, traps behind the walls, kidnappings – and while I'm in charge, I shall do all within my power to end his reign of terror."

"Christine speaks correctly…"

Shocked to hear a new voice boldly enter the conversation, Christine lifted burning eyes from glaring holes through the lap of her skirt and looked toward the open door. Both Arabella and Raoul also turned.

Madame Giry walked inside, unruffled by their shock to see her there.

"Madame, do you often enter into private conversations?" Raoul asked pointedly.

"Monsieur le Victome, the door was ajar." She gracefully motioned to it. "If the matter warranted privacy, I should think a closed door would do better to prevent unwanted visitors, whose sole purpose to be here is to keep the theater running in a timely and proficient manner for our patrons – no?"

Christine stifled an amused giggle at Madame's apology that held the double-edge of chastisement. Raoul frowned, clearly not pleased for what he felt an unwarranted criticism. Idly Christine wondered if in being the Phantom's aide the woman had learned tricks of stealth and eavesdropping from her furtive employer. No matter, she felt grateful for Madame's unannounced presence, having struggled mightily not to speak in Erik's defense. To the Vicomte's knowledge she was never supposed to have even _glimpsed_ the Phantom – and she had been very close to lighting into Raoul, who relentlessly seemed bent on speaking ill of Erik.

"Christine's story is correct," Madame repeated. "She was hidden away and in training. I felt the arrangement best after she told me of her misfortunes in England. And I assure you, monsieur, that she is safe under this roof, perhaps the safest one in the theater."

"Exactly how much of our conversation did you overhear?" Raoul demanded.

"Enough." Madame nodded in acknowledgement to Christine. "I expect you on stage in precisely one hour in full costume for the fourth act. You will sing Aminta's lament. Do not be late."

Christine still did not trust herself to speak, much less sing, but gave a slight nod to show that she understood.

"I think perhaps that is our cue to leave," Arabella suggested to Raoul.

"Yes, of course…" Raoul said irritably as if he wished to stay, looking as if he did not believe a word spoken. He continued to study Madame Giry, who to her credit did not flicker one eyelash, her petite frame erect, her manner composed and in control.

Raoul expelled a heavy breath and turned to Christine.

"My dear, forgive me if I upset you. That was not my intent. I am only concerned for your welfare, even more so while you remain in this bizarrely run theater."

Madame did not show any indication that she received his slight and Christine sighed, weary of the topic.

"You didn't upset me, Raoul. I understand your concern, and I'll be fine. Madame Giry has been a tremendous help to me."

He actually _had_ offended her, speaking so harshly of Erik. Yes, she was still furious with the coldhearted beast of an Opera Ghost, and felt no compunction with insulting him aloud for what he had done in deceiving her – but she detested hearing others attack him, especially when they didn't even know him.

Raoul continued to look unconvinced. "Tonight. We'll talk more tonight."

"No, Raoul. I don't think that's a good idea," Christine sent another swift glance to the mirror. "It's my first night back, and it's all been rather a lot to deal with…"

"Tomorrow night then. I'll collect you after your last practice."

"I really don't think I should leave just yet. I only just returned and have much yet to learn."

"Surely you are allowed a few hours away from the opera?"

Christine looked at Madame Giry half in question, half in silent appeal for her aid.

The woman glanced from Christine to Raoul and gave a stiff nod. "Once rehearsals are concluded, the rest of the time is Christine's to spend as she likes."

Christine inwardly scowled at the accommodating words that favored Raoul's plan. She tried to think of some way out of this predicament, beginning to feel invisible for as much notice as her preferences were given.

"Excellent," Raoul smiled and grabbed his hat from where he had tossed it on the dressing table. "We shall return for you at seven o'clock tomorrow evening for supper. The three of us have much catching up to do."

"Raoul, please – I'm really not sure this is wise, not at this time –"

"It will be alright, Christine," Arabella cut in with a smile. "We shall talk again tomorrow, when you're well rested." She gave her an intent look before they left, as if to reassure her that she would keep the secret she had been entrusted with and help in whatever way she could.

But Arabella didn't know everything.

No one did.

x

From the corridor, before the door closed, Christine heard Raoul quietly order Madame Giry to keep a close eye on her and inform him immediately if anything went amiss by sending a messenger to the hotel where he stayed if he wasn't in the theater.

Christine drooped in exhaustion, settling her elbows on the surface of the table and dropping her chin into her palms. Alone in the sudden heaviness of dark silence, she stared glumly at her reflection. All day, she had yearned for peace, to spend time alone with her muddled thoughts, to try to sort them in a way that would make sense of what happened. As the hours progressed, other troubles only added to their weight.

She finally had the peace she craved, but this solitude felt far from tranquil.

Feeling somewhat unhinged by the magnitude of all that occurred in less than twenty-four hours, she wondered how and why Erik, _the_ _Phantom_, had put her in the midst of such a frightful, impossible chaos of confusion, secrets and lies.

More of his unmerited revenge?

She turned on the chair to stare bleakly into the long mirror.

"Why have you done this to me? Why are you always so cruel…? What did I ever do to deserve this!"

Even the secretive smiles of the carved golden cherubs in the thick frame seemed to ridicule her.

"Are you even there…?" she asked in a half whisper, staring at her rapt reflection. "I tried to resist, but was outnumbered. Do you hear? Please, don't hurt them because of my ignorance with how to handle the situation … must I beg it of you? Did the years we once shared mean nothing to you at all?"

As it so often was, silence became her only answer…

And for the first time since he brought her back, she hoped he had _not_ been there to hear.

Suddenly a chill whispered against her exposed flesh, making the fine hairs on her neck and arms stand on end. In the gloomy stillness, the steady flames from the trio of candles near her side flickered with a sudden gust of wind.

Christine rose halfway out of the chair, her heart beating fast with hope and dread –

"Erik…?"

A swift knock from behind startled her into giving a harsh indrawn gasp that came out as a strangled yelp and she swung her attention from the mirror to the dressing room door as it opened.

A thin young woman wearing a simple gray dress, with her light brown hair wound in a heavy coil at the back, entered and bobbed a little curtsey. "Bon Jour, Mam'selle. I am Charlotte. Your hairdresser."

Her mind elsewhere, she barely followed the introduction, still gripping the dresser with both hands, her back now to it. "Charlotte, did you feel anything…peculiar when you came in?" Christine's tense gaze lit on the three extinguished candles and the smoke slowly curling to the ceiling.

"Pe-culiar, mam'selle?" Charlotte shook her head as she covered the distance. "What is – pe-culiar? I speak _petit_ English." She held her hand up with the pad of her thumb nearly pressed to her index finger.

And she spoke little French. She might find this state of affairs somewhat amusing if it wasn't so damnably frustrating.

"Something out of place. Odd. A breeze – does this room have drafts?" Perhaps there was another way into his tunnels besides the mirror door. A crack in the wall hiding the secret corridor? She recalled the iciness of the soft gust of wind, the chill of which she had felt nowhere within the opera house and only inside his caverns.

Charlotte shrugged, as if she did not understand.

"Yes, alright. Never mind." Christine intently glanced at the mirror's pane, which appeared not to have moved an inch. "You have come to dress my hair for the rehearsal then?"

"Your hair. Oui." Charlotte gave her a wary smile and Christine sighed and sat down, again facing the trio of mirrors and giving the French woman access to do her job.

In the quiet that ensued, while Charlotte worked with an iron rod she heated in a flame to style her unruly locks into a more tame profusion of springy curls, Christine fluctuated between thinking there was a draft coming from a hidden crevice and wondering if he _had_ been there and actually heeded her continual pleas to speak with him. She supposed she would never know, and that was the most maddening knowledge to bear.

Lost in thought, she did not immediately notice Charlotte step away.

"Feen-ished," the girl said with a smile.

Christine studied her well sculpted curls, partly held back with a dark green velvet ribbon. A chill having nothing to do with any mystifying breeze shivered over her flesh.

It was time to get into costume and make her singing debut.

If ever she wished for a secret passage to open up and swallow her whole, it was now.

.

**xXx**

.

"No, no, no – that will _not_ do! The ribbon is all wrong and the hair is too coiffed." A quick tug and the long strip of green material was pulled from Christine's glossy curls. Loosed from their containment, they fell in appealing ripples about her rosy cheeks. "She must look like a wandering gypsy, Charlotte, not a lady with a maid. _Est-ce que tu me comprends…?_ Therese, pay attention – the skirt will need taken up another few inches to show her ankles so that the audience can see them well, like so … and just where are her anklets?" She snapped her focus to the quiet new diva. "Did they not provide you with anklets to wear…? The bells from the anklets are important to the story. Mon Dieu! Must I do everything in this place …?"

Madame Giry's severe words in a mix of both English and French sailed high to Box Five where the Phantom somberly stood behind the crimson velvet drape and watched her critical appraisal of Christine's costume for the fourth act. The fool hairdresser and seamstress gave nervous nods and brief answers to each brusque directive, but the Phantom barely paid them heed, unable to take his eyes off the star attraction.

One day without her – not even that – and he felt that he had to fight to remember how to breathe. Having experienced the full knowledge of Christine, now knowing what it meant to be intimate with his intoxicating songbird, had only cemented the bond that for four years he worked so hard to sever. He had been a fool to give in to her feminine allure and was twice as damned to rebuff her now.

But he had no choice...

The flames of the stage lights glimmered over her porcelain skin and highlighted her dark curls with bronze and gold, causing her to glow, like an angel. She was the epitome of beauty, the fire again returned to her eyes, her feisty spirit renewed like a barely contained current that he could discern even from this distance.

He could sense her frustration with their poking and prodding by the tightening of her full lips and the clenching of her hands, her nervousness by the abrupt movements of her head to look in another direction, as if she heard an unexpected sound that startled her. Those wide dark eyes suddenly turned up in his direction, and he surreptitiously narrowed the gap of the velvet curtain he gripped in one gloved hand, shielding his presence so she would not see.

He could not let her see. The only way he could give her what she wanted – to live above in the light, away from him – and try to redeem those undeserved grievances against her was to disengage all contact between them. She had been an innocent; in his ignorance of the truth he destroyed that. But she was still guilty of deceit in the start of their war, in England, to gain the wealth and status she wanted … and to be rid of him. Regardless of her past sins, he could no longer include her in his scheme of revenge against those who opposed him, and had granted her the sole wish for which she had pleaded day and night – to be gone from his dark chambers. The insufferable Vicomte had not been guilty of molesting her, that much was evident by her incessant and disgusting fawning defense of the boy, and though the Phantom would no longer interfere in her secret affairs, he would be damned if he would so readily release her from her spoken vows…

…was already damned to hurt her again by his refusal to do so…

A paradox his logic viciously countered – to keep up this pretense of the sham of their marriage bruised whatever heart he had left, a heart he no longer recognized. But he could not let the arrogant boy take Christine entirely from him. In that respect, she would always be his and never that fool's wife. Should she wish whatever foul relations they shared to progress, she would have to do so as an adulteress.

He clenched the curtain hard at the vile thought, angry with himself that with all his tricks of magic, he could not wave his hand and forcefully destroy the powerful bond he felt to her.

Last night, he had returned to his lair after delivering her above. Unable to enter her chamber and face the memory of all that so recently transpired there, he ordered Jolene to take Jacques and gather Christine's things in a trunk, bringing it to him on the wheeled cart. Once he had left the trunk in her dressing room, he had departed, but not before standing over her unconscious form and drinking in the close sight of her one last time, not daring to tarry long lest she awaken. He had given her the remainder of the drug, all that was left and not enough to keep her asleep for long. Once he returned, he had paced in his home for hours, unable to sleep, to eat, even to compose or play. Cursing himself thrice over, he again found his way behind the walls of the theater, this time to confront Madame, and tried to put into cold words of distance what his heart mocked and defied, in forcing himself not to feel. She had looked at him askance, no more believing his sudden lack of interest in his little songbird than he believed it himself.

An hour ago, pathetic wretch that he was, he approached the mirror, only for a glimpse to assure himself that she was alright, and heard the last of the preposterous conversation between the blasted de Chagnys, Madame, and Christine – as if the boy thought he could best him, even catch him! The Phantom had soon heard her address him in hurt and angry tones, pleading for the boy's life – damn it all – had almost confronted her – before coming to his senses and swiftly and silently pivoting on his heel to leave.

He _had_ to leave.

He had no choice.

If he stayed, if he confronted her, he might have taken her back to his dark dungeons to remain forever.

She had burrowed beneath the barrier once erected around his heart, weakening his defenses then obliterating them entirely in her utter surrender to him the previous night. But his rare act of mercy, to let her go, stemmed from more than trying to offer what morsel of contrition he could give for her discovery that a deformed beast had taken her virtue – more than his own damnable feelings that he had only buried deep and not destroyed at all, as he fervently had hoped.

She withheld the exclusive prize of her heart, and he did not wish for her pity. Did not want even the outward expression of her penitence for her childish cruelty in what she had done to him – his ongoing multitude of crimes far surpassed her old betrayal.

Even if such an unlikely phenomenon were to occur that she could truly come to care for him – _as the disfigured creature she once knew and had pushed outside her heart and not only as the mysterious masked Phantom with whom she had been intrigued and lured_ – he did not deserve a fragment of love she could conjure. He was loathsome. Within and without. His hands stained with the blood of the just and the unjust. In truth, she had been right to refuse anything he had to offer years ago …

It was for her _deceit_ and _manipulations _alone that he condemned her, in the malicious game she had played against him.

Had she been honest about her disgust with his face four years ago, he would have stoically accepted it, not having believed then or now that anyone could surrender their body or their love to such a scarred and deformed creature with half a face. She had given him hope he never once dared to claim, taunting him into a vulnerability he fought with every ounce of reason as she blossomed into a voluptuous, beautiful goddess of a woman, making him burn with love and lust for her. She had given him glimpses of treasure, toying with him, allowing him to touch and taste and explore – then had callously snatched it all away, casting him into absolute darkness where he had almost died from bullets that she might as well have shot into his flesh. Fettered with chains of hatred and despair, the nightmares having fed his rising need for vengeance, he soon found himself trapped into a life beyond the torments of any hell he could have imagined …

Strangers in another land, demons in their own right, had tortured him, feared and shackled him – trying to break his spirit and shatter his mind – later to become his prey.

But a careless Little Angel had wrought the most damage, the worst of the suffering he had endured, because from the time they met as children, she alone captured his heart.

And though she had thoughtlessly and recklessly torn it in two, he was without all hope, for it was still hers to hold.

"Do you wish me to stand here or walk while I sing?"

Every taut sense of sight and sound honed on to the slight figure beneath as her apprehensive voice filtered up to him. He cursed himself for falling back into the snare of dwelling on what could never be undone and waited with expectancy, his gloved hand anxiously tightening on the curtain and widening the gap a fraction. Silently he encouraged her to sing, knowing she had the ability within if she would only have faith in herself. What had happened to destroy that, to so shake her confidence in her gift?

She smoothed her hands nervously down her hips and the flounces of her bright gypsy skirt and took a small step forward, her eyes fastening to a point amid the darkened tiers of chairs.

_._

_Only to imagine a life empty of you_

_Where would I be, what would I do?_

_Only to imagine a life far away_

_If you would ask, just once, I would stay_

_A life filled with hurt and regret I must live_

_Just once, to hear three words,_

_My life I would give_

_Come to me … never forget … forever stay true, _

_Turn not away, and I'll come to you …_

_._

The melancholia of Aminta's lament, not his greatest work but his one concession to her humanity for a brief span of a scene, rose in crystalline perfection as Christine immersed herself into character and sang as if her heart was the one wounded, the wet shine in her eyes evidence of her despair. The haunting words, sung from her lips, echoed in the deepest regions of his tortured soul and for several wretched heartbeats the Phantom could almost believe that she sung to him alone, words that he would wish to hear…

"Brava!"

Boisterous applause erupted from within the darkened theater once her final notes sailed away on a wistful plea. The Vicomte strode from the back of the theater and down the aisle to the stage.

Like the crash of an icy wave, the Phantom was awakened by harsh reality and drew the chill of stern indifference around him as a cloak. He glared at the couple as the musical infidel climbed the steps up to the stage and took her hands she still held clasped frozen beneath her chin in a beseeching act, unscripted – one she had implemented during the final part of her aria.

Of course, she had been singing for her Vicomte. She must have seen him loitering in the background. He had heard and seen enough of their pathetic conversation to realize they'd had a spat. The ignorant boy now offered her a public show of support, praising her voice so all could hear, but the Phantom had heard his idiotic persuasions for her to leave the theater and the opera and knew that was his ultimate goal.

_The insipid fool. Let him try…_

During Christine's song, he had focused solely on the beauty of her voice, her face, her form, his mind then and now cruelly reminding him of those exquisite features unclothed, untried, and arching upward for his touch –

…before she realized who and what he was.

Briefly he closed his eyes to regain composure and rid himself of last night's image and the subsequent confrontation. Many from the chorus had drawn closer to the center of the stage from the outside fringes, the expressions of stark disbelief on their awed faces satisfaction enough, and the only triumph he would attain.

Yes. An angel's voice…

With the devil for her teacher.

He must work once more to eradicate her from his soul. Until then, must remain concealed in shadows and within his dark Hades, where he belonged. Never completely absent from her life, but not so that she would know of his existence. He was her manager, once her instructor. She was the star of his opera, even if she was no longer his little angel to challenge and adore. He could not abandon her entirely for the sake of the production.

But she need never know he was there.

xXx


	52. Chapter 52

**A/N: LOL- Poor misunderstood Erik! ;-) I noticed some confusion – not giving anything away, this has all been shown: A) he's not been there to hear everything she said or to see how she reacts to his absence. Only what I showed in his POV. And B) He believes he's showing Christine mercy – she demanded then begged to live above, up thru their last day together. He learned a great part of his revenge was based on a lie- told him by his spy - since that was the rumor in England- people calling Christine the Vicomte's "lover rumored to be a little mad" (ch. 27). He doesn't know how C feels- because she never told _the Phantom_ of her love for Erik, barely bringing him up (his orders) and changing the subject the one time he asked, then demanded she tell him at Christmas dinner, to which she angrily refused and a fight ensued...I know it's frustrating –but remember- before the hairdresser appeared, he was about to confront Christine then changed his mind- so we'll see how long Erik can hold back from where his heart wants to be… ;-) (Yes, I'm a wicked author, I know it. lol) … And now…**

* * *

**LII**

.

Christine woke to the gentle trickle of liquid falling into porcelain. Her first hazy thought - that she was beneath the earth in her bedchamber - shattered apart when she opened her eyes to the embroidered pink silk of the chaise and pillow upon which she lay.

Her second thought - she was not alone.

"Erik?" she said hopefully as, still half asleep, she rolled onto her side and looked over her shoulder.

Meg stood near the dressing table with a pitcher in her hands.

"No, it's me. Who's Erik?"

"Did I say Erik?" Christine hedged and feigned an embarrassed little laugh, willing her sluggish mind to rapid attentiveness. "I was only dreaming."

"He must be someone you fancy."

"Why would you say that?" Christine pushed herself up to sit, focusing her attention on a thin stripe of the rug.

"You said his name as if you desperately wished to see him. Why else would you dream of him?"

"Dreams are seldom what you _wish_ them to be, Meg. I have found that many dreams seem very real once you're inside them, but rarely if ever make sense or fit into the normal pattern of life."

Reminded of her passionate dreams of her masked lover, one from which she had just left and had also been sure _was_ real – disappointed to awaken and find it was not – her face heated in embarrassment. Determined to conceal her need of him while in the presence of the all-seeing Meg Giry, she turned her back to the girl, reaching for her wrapper on a nearby chair and drawing it about her bed gown. Swiftly she changed the topic.

"How did you get in here? I'm certain I locked the door last night before retiring."

Meg picked up a set of iron keys on a ring and jangled them in answer then set them back on the dresser. "Maman told me to wake you, and I brought water for you to wash with. It's rather icy, we had another snowfall last night, so I poured a small amount of water into that shallow basin to take some of the chill off. A trick I learned: If you hold it above the candle's flames for a short time, it helps to warm the water so it's not so horridly cold."

"That's kind of you." Christine would give anything for the deliciously heated water of her claw-footed bathtub below ground, the air inside the dressing room also frigid.

Meg smiled in acknowledgement as she lifted the bowl and held it over the flames of the candelabra she had lit. "Morning rehearsal starts in fifteen minutes."

"It does? Good heavens – why didn't you tell me sooner?" The news set a different fire beneath Christine and she pushed away the coverlet and clambered out of bed, first hurrying to the small, private water closet at the far corner of the room. She wondered what if any favors the previous diva had proffered to gain that. Or were all dressing rooms outfitted with the luxury? She hoped the managers, who seemed rather lecherous with how they ogled the dancers, like the stagehands did, expected nothing from her.

"I noticed the woman- La Carlotta- wasn't at rehearsal yesterday," she said as she rejoined Meg. "Did she leave the opera?"

"If only!" Meg gave a disgusted shake of her head. "She had an accident."

"An _accident_…?"

Christine stopped in her tracks, looking up in shock. She recalled the cavalier manner in which the Phantom had spoken of death in relation to the ousted diva. Though her mind had finally caught up to her heart in knowing him as Erik, Christine could not equate the two as one being, not when she heard of the unwarranted violence that Erik from the past would never have committed under such mild circumstances. He had been angry and bitter, but never to a degree that he would harm a defenseless individual purely to obtain his way or for cruel amusement. For this reason, she still thought of him as The Phantom in the present, no matter that he was Erik from her past.

"Please tell me the Phantom had nothing to do with her accident," Christine said nervously.

"Not this time. She misjudged distance from the carriage to the ground while on an outing and fell. A very bad sprain I've heard. She'll be off her feet and away from the theater at least through your opening, so you have no need to worry about her giving you a difficult time over the next two weeks."

Christine returned Meg's smile, more relieved that the Phantom had not been the cause of the woman's mishap and would feel no need to exact his cruel tricks to force her to go.

Not having been told to arrive in costume, Christine went behind the screen to don a day dress of soft merino blue wool and continued their earlier conversation. "Is that the only key to my room?"

"These are Maman's, since she is headmistress over the dormitories and unofficially in charge of what occurs within the theater, especially since she works for the Phantom and they all know it, but there is another set – the managers also have a ring of them."

Christine stepped from behind the screen, her eyes going to Meg. "The _managers_ have a key to my room?"

Meg let out a little laugh. "Of course – they have a key to every door in the building, since they own it. It hangs in their office. But there's no reason to fear – I don't think they've ever even used them. And there's also the skeleton key that opens any door…" She held it up for Christine to see. "No, don't look like that. No one will bother you. I knocked but you didn't answer, and maybe I shouldn't have entered – but I couldn't let you sleep through rehearsal. Most everyone knows this is now your bedchamber and wouldn't dare cross Maman and enter where they're not welcome. She knows you are now wed to the Phantom, so will protect what is his."

Hearing his name linked with hers in union, as if he would still care or want her, brought back the dull ache of again losing him that had settled inside her heart. Not as intense as when she thought him dead, but disturbing all the same. Last night, she had hoped he might end this pervasive silence and come see her. She so despised leaving matters unresolved and wished everything out in the open – but how could she have that if he was just as determined to remain distant and hidden? He knew how she hated unresolved matters and wondered if that was his purpose, to make her punishment even more harsh, though God only knew why she was being punished! Once she returned to the room last night, she had carefully checked the papered walls, finding no cracks for drafts, certain no wind had come through that way, then again quietly talked to the mirror as if he stood on the other side, begging him to come to her, wondering if he _had_ been there and seen her talk to Raoul...

"Oh, dear, I've botched things up horribly, haven't I? You've gone white as a ghost and look as if you're the one with the sprained ankle."

"I didn't sleep well. May I see that key? The one you just showed me."

Meg looked at her oddly, but selected the key and handed the ring over. Never having seen a skeleton key, Christine studied the slim column of iron, noting the top that was usually jagged had been filed away … and strongly resembled the key she had taken at the cave.

Did that key also open other doors? She had been over every inch of the frame within reach and no lock or lever existed on this side of the glass.

But what other doors were there that led into his dark dungeons?

She handed the key back to Meg, uneasy that anyone could enter her locked room, but perhaps she made too much of the issue. This chamber offered far better accommodations than a crowded dormitory, though her true reason for choosing it had nothing to do with all the little comforts and everything to do with a hard pane of reflective glass that acted as a secret door.

If only that door had a lock in which to put a skeleton key!

With time slipping away, she hurriedly splashed her face with the water Meg had brought, no longer icy as to be uncomfortable but still cold.

"You were magnificent at rehearsal," Meg said as Christine brushed her untidy curls. "You truly do have an angel's voice, like he wrote in his note. I even heard one of the girls that was harassing you say to another, 'so that's why he picked her.'" Meg giggled. "Serves them right, they can be so cruel."

Christine glanced at her. "They're not your friends?"

"Not most of them. I don't like when people viciously tease at the expense of another's feelings."

The more she learned about Meg, the more Christine felt reassured that she would make a good friend. But could she trust her as a confidante? She could prove useful as one. Arabella didn't live within these walls and Meg knew things that Arabella couldn't possibly know, things about the Opera Ghost and the layout of the theater …

As if reading her mind, Meg spoke. "You really are full of surprises. You can sing, when you told everyone you couldn't. You married the Phantom, two months after he secretly stole you away. And you are close friends with our sole patron, who traveled to France to question everyone in theater when he learned you went missing …"

Christine winced, the curiosity undisguised in Meg's voice.

"We grew up in the same area. My father was his tutor when Raou- that is, when the Vicomte was a boy."

"Really? What did he teach him?"

"The violin." Finished with her hair, Christine set down her brush.

"The Vicomte plays the violin?" Meg asked in disbelief.

"Well, not very well…"

They shared a grin and a giggle.

"We should go before we're late. Maman is very strict about punctuality."

"So was my teacher."

"_Your_ teacher … the Phantom?"

She hesitated in giving Erik's name. "Yes. Meg, there's something I would like your help with tonight, after I return from dinner. That is, if you're free …"

"You're leaving the theater then?"

Christine nodded tersely. "I have a dinner engagement with Arabella de Chagny…."

"And the Vicomte?" Meg added in mounting excitement when Christine paused, as if the ballerina had just been introduced to a tidbit of juicy scandal. "Does _the Phantom_ know?" she said in a stage whisper, as if they had an audience.

Christine hoped he was not there to hear.

She clenched the hairbrush tightly, then relaxed her hold and set it down, attempting to look and sound self-assured. "It's nothing, really – a dinner between old friends. And besides, I couldn't find a way out of it."

"As if you should want to! No peasant's bistro for the likes of the Vicomte de Chagny. You will surely dine at one of the finest establishments Paris has to offer." She moved to the door and Christine followed. "Don't tell the others. They're already sick with envy and likely will give you a worse time of it. Wait a moment …" Meg turned, a look of dawning comprehension in her blue eyes. "When you first arrived and the Phantom dropped the note, I asked and you mentioned that you had been to the opera before, with a friend. Was it the Vicomte?"

She had a long-reaching memory, and Christine reluctantly nodded.

Meg issued a light squeal before opening the door. "I knew it. Don't tell them that either, though it would be worth it to see them knocked down a peg or two. But you wouldn't welcome the hostility."

After a lifetime of dealing with Erik's explosive rants and, more recently, the Phantom's dark fits of rage, any vicious barbs the chorus could think up would be an afternoon tea in the park. But she had no plan to announce the news and even toyed with the idea of slinking outdoors to meet the de Chagnys at the foot of the stairs before they could enter the building.

Taking a deep breath, Christine gave one last look toward the full mirror then followed Meg out the door.

She did not come to this theater, expecting to belong. She had only wished to hide.

The irony that soon she would be center stage and the attraction of every eye in Paris did not fail to escape her, and she could only hope that the masquerade of her mother's name would be enough to shield herself and her dark secret.

x

Nothing untoward occurred during the day's rehearsals, and Christine was thankful, while miserable at the same time. She would have welcomed his deep voice booming from the rafters with his orders for the company – any evidence at all that he was still there. She gladly undertook the long hours of tireless acting, losing herself as another character so she would not have to think of her own wretched life. Not until Madame called an end to each practice and she must then return to being Christine Grendahl once more, a subterfuge in itself. She found it much more difficult to live actual life behind an invisible masque than to perform a role for the stage and wondered how Erik had managed the deception for so many weeks in her presence. Doubtless, he would have continued with the pitiless charade, too, had she not intervened and stopped him.

The renewed burst of resentment she felt at his trickery dulled to nervousness as she realized that soon the de Chagnys would come to collect her.

Surely, now that she knew his true identity, his threat to kill the Vicomte if she so much as entered his presence was an idle one. Another ruse behind which the Phantom hid to torment her. Surely he would not follow through with such an evil, malicious plan?

He no longer seemed to care about her. He had married her and taken her innocence that she freely gave him, only to remove her from his hidden home. That stung the worst – more than his lies and manipulations – that _Erik_ had done that to her – along with the knowledge that if she had just let things stand and chosen to ignore his slip of the endearment – had not recklessly chased after him to confront him and remove his mask – she would be with him at this moment, and in the nights sharing his bed. Of that she was certain; he had told her after her last practice session with him that she was not yet ready to go above.

_Damn him. Damn herself. And damn the whole lot of the world!_

Furious again, wishing for something to throw, she spotted an ugly pink and white vase, empty of flowers, and hurled it as hard as she could against the wall, just preventing herself from making the mocking glass of reflection her target. As the porcelain shattered into myriad fragments, she imagined each shard a broken piece of her life. How could she ever mend all of what had fallen apart in four years? Was it even possible?

Hardly feeling better for her lapse into fury, she grimly picked up the shards and disposed of them, wincing as she then swept the slivers with a cloth and pricked her index finger. She hissed and squeezed her fingertip until a small bead of blood appeared. Staring at the injury took her back to her badly cut finger, and the Phantom – no, _Erik_ – he had been Erik then, _not_ the aloof, cold, uncaring Phantom – bandaging her wound and showing concern. He _had_ shown concern, and not just because he guarded her welfare as his singer.

He had called her his Little Angel.

He had kissed her and made love to her, showing tender concern then too … no matter that for the majority of her stay he professed cold disinterest in all but her voice.

Some part of him _must_ care!

So what had gone so wrong…?

Disgusted with allowing herself to travel down the same path, over and over, certain her mind would soon bear deep ruts from the wheels of that hopeless thought, she rummaged through the trunk Erik left that held all the gowns he had selected, not even one of them missing to offer a fragment of hope that she might return to his home. Sighing, she chose a burgundy velvet trimmed in black lace, reflecting her current mood, dark and austere.

A soft knock at the door startled her as she applied heavy stage powder beneath her eyes in an attempt to hide the dark circles from lack of sleep. Not that she hadn't tried to sleep, and finally achieved that goal, but sleep brought dreams. Dreams of him.

"Yes?" she called out and set down the pouf, scowling at her image, her appearance only made worse. Irritated with her heart for its involuntary leap of expectation – the Phantom of the Opera would _never_ enter by such ordinary means as a door when he could use a secret mirror – she turned on the chair to greet her guest.

Arabella breezed in looking stylish in a dark blue brocade silk that deepened the gray of her irises. Though not apparent to strangers who only offered a glimpse to eyes that were a trifle small, with a nose somewhat large for her face – she possessed a loveliness that exuded from the warmth of her heart and made up for any flaws that mankind considered imperfect. Her best physical assets were without doubt, a creamy complexion free of blemish and a striking figure.

"Is it time, already?" Christine asked, her heart giving another erratic thump, this time from nerves, that her rash plan to slip outdoors to meet the de Chagnys was now for naught.

"We came early. Raoul has business with the managers, and I thought I would come to offer aid or cheer … or both," Arabella said with a sympathetic smile as Christine took a wet cloth and wiped the dry white pigment from beneath her eyes. Now pink streaks colored her skin, her appearance worse than before she began, and she sighed. Lovely.

"I don't know how to use such trimmings and normally wouldn't bother, but I don't wish for Raoul to see any sign of distress and become suspicious."

"You poor dear. Allow me. Did you get any sleep at all?"

"Some … not much," Christine amended as Arabella carefully patted the dampness from beneath her eyes left by the cloth with a dry corner of the material.

Arabella then carefully put a fraction of the powder Christine had used on the pouf and ordered her to close her eyes. Christine did so, the tickle against her skin and the scent of the pigment making her want to sneeze. Meg had said that Christine would be responsible for applying her own stage makeup for each performance, coloring her cheeks and eyelids and using kohl to darken the lashes or to rim the eyes. It all seemed pointless, though Meg told her it was essential due to the bright stage lighting achieved with strong flames and mirrors and other crafty devices that bled a person of all color. That idea seemed more fitting, since she was married to a ghost and lately felt like one, but she supposed if she must wear the blasted bits of colored artifices she would need practice using them, if she didn't want to end up looking like a clown …

"You're very quiet," she said after some time passed once Arabella set down the pouf and Christine began brushing her hair. "Something troubles you?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," Arabella admitted quietly. "I don't know how to begin, but I need to tell you before Raoul joins us…"

"Is this what you wanted to tell me yesterday?" Christine inspected Arabella's handiwork, pleased with the results. In the reflection of the glass she noticed her friend give a tight nod and take a few steps away.

"There is something that happened … in England. Some time ago, actually …"

After a pregnant pause, Christine decided to help her along. "I think I know," she said softly.

Arabella turned her head to look at her, a hint of dread in her eyes. "You do?"

"It's been quite obvious for some time. You love Raoul."

"_What?_" The shock of Arabella's tone denied it, though the instant high color flushing her cheeks proved the statement was far from false. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Why is it ridiculous? I've seen the way you look at him when he enters a room. I saw it in England." Christine smiled in approval. "You two are well suited to each other." And that would relieve her of one huge niggling difficulty!

"We're _cousins!_"

"And? Tell me cousins don't fall in love and marry! Our own Queen Victoria and Prince Albert fell in love, married, and had nine children – even the de Chagny history of your ancestors which you once recited to me had first cousins who married. So you said."

Arabella shook her head. "It's not that. I'm well aware it's common."

"Well then?"

"He sees me _only_ as his cousin. Nothing more."

"But you don't see him that way, do you…? Have you told him you love him?"

"This conversation is utterly absurd." Arabella paced to and fro in tense steps, fidgeting with her hands at her waist. "You certainly do not lack for a vivid imagination, Christine. The thought of us together is preposterous. Why, even before we left England, he mentioned that it was time to find me a husband, past time actually."

"Fine then. Forget I mentioned it…" Christine swiveled on her chair to tie dual sections of curls behind her head with a black ribbon. "But for someone who is so calm and composed in much more troubling situations than this one, you are reacting rather frenzied to a statement you say is false…"

Arabella stopped pacing and met Christine's steady eyes in the mirror as she finished tying the ribbon. Christine dropped her arms to her sides in contrition.

"I don't mean to upset you. You've been so kind to me these past four years, accepting me into your home when I was nothing but a troublemaker and a trespasser."

"You were young and full of spirit. I never held those days against you. You've changed."

Christine nodded distantly, not willing to switch the topic. "But Arabella, friendship works both ways. I can also be discreet and offer a listening ear if needed."

Arabella gave a tight nod and approving smile. "You really have changed. You've become so strong after all you've endured and are still enduring ..."

Christine thought about that. During her final two years at The Heights her mettle had needed to grow threads of steel, but any return of true strength of spirit she owed to Erik, to _the Phantom_. He had terrorized her and angered her, tried her and tested her until she had no choice but to bear the weight of their emotional battles and fight back, or collapse and re-enter her world of darkness, not that she hadn't attempted it. But he had always been there to pull her out before she could sink too deep, to provide safety, even comfort, before he then would challenge her anew.

She still believed she no longer possessed all of her reason, if she ever had known absolute sanity, but that made sense since Erik was her soul mate, and he must be completely mad.

A knock at the door was followed by Raoul's voice, jarring her from the cynical thought.

"Ladies? May I enter?"

"Of course," Christine called out and rose from her dressing table somewhat nervously.

Arabella turned, putting her back to the door. Raoul entered, his smile wide as he strode toward Christine. "You look divine." He took her hand and kissed it in greeting. "Arabella…is everything alright?"

Arabella turned and offered him a reassuring smile. "Yes, of course. What could be the matter?"

Christine wondered if she was the only one to notice the nervous pitch a semi-tone higher in Arabella's voice. Perhaps she only recognized it because of her intense vocal training with her teacher and the daily exercise of her musical scales. Raoul seemed not to notice a thing.

Hurriedly Christine fetched her wrap. "We should go…"

He seemed taken aback by her abrupt desire to leave, but helped her into her dark blue cloak edged in black fur that had also been in the trousseau Erik had given her.

Struggling not to glance even once in the mirror, Christine left with her escorts.

As assured as she had earlier been that Erik would not enact his threat against the Vicomte, now she was no longer certain. He had changed a great deal in four years, had always been morose, but now something dark and twisted propelled him, haunting his soul. However, one thing had not changed – he still despised the Vicomte with an unholy fury, considering him the worst of his enemies. Perhaps if they could quietly and quickly go, the unapproachable Phantom need never know of her dinner plans or her unwilling defiance against him.

x

Once inside the carriage, emblazoned with the de Chagny crest on its door, Raoul faced Christine, his expression somber.

"Tell me, now that we are away from the theater and safe from being overheard, have you been threatened by this man they call the Opera Ghost? Did he command your silence and were you too frightened to tell what really occurred since you've been away? Did he take you, as they have said? Harm you? Do not be frightened to speak, Christine. He is nowhere near, but we are here to help, in any manner necessary …."

The part of her heart always loyal to Erik was exasperated with the Vicomte's tenacity, at the same time the part so newly spurned by the Phantom felt buoyed by Raoul's concern. But never would she endanger either man and firmly she shook her head.

"No, Raoul, it is as I have told you. No one kept me against my will. I was hidden away and protected. Once I was ready to return, the danger had passed – the man I saw from Gimmerton had left – and I came back to take my place with the troupe."

"What man?"

"Someone I remember visiting The Heights. Someone who visited Henri."

"Arabella said it was a friend of your father's."

Troubled that he had caught her so easily in the lie, she shook her head in frustration.

"Perhaps he was both. I'd seen him before and my father and Henri lived in the same place, as you well know. I didn't ask his reasons for being there, only that I recognized him."

"It's alright, Christine," Arabella soothed. "I'm sure Raoul didn't mean to interrogate you."

He looked surprised at the idea then hurt that Arabella would say it. "Of course not! My father left me in charge of the Opera House, and I only wish to get to the bottom of this frightful matter. I was concerned that he might be endangering you but you were too apprehensive to say so when he could have been nearby to hear."

"Well, he's not, I'm in no physical danger – save for falling on my face and making a complete fool of myself in front of an audience – so may we please change the subject?"

Arabella reached out to clasp her hand in encouragement. "You'll be a success, I'm sure of it. Your voice could mesmerize the angels."

There was only one Angel she cared about pleasing. A dark brooding one, gifted with Music…

Realizing both cousins carefully watched her, Christine cast off the shadow that had crept in to cover her soul and managed a small smile. "Thank you for your faith in me. I shall do my best."

For the remainder of the carriage ride, Arabella and Raoul both encouraged her then informed her of all that occurred in England since her escape, including the curious inspector who asked such intrusive questions. Christine had been right about Elizabeth's father and was grateful that she was far from his sights.

x

"I think you ladies will enjoy the excellent cuisine that the Le Grand Véfour offers their clientele," Raoul said with relief as he escorted them through the tall white Greco colonnades that surrounded most of the building and into the posh restaurant nestled inside, almost hidden.

He was glad to get Christine away from the Opera House for however long was possible and eventually hoped to convince her to move into the hotel.

A doorman tilted the brim of his hat in deferential greeting and opened the carved door.

Christine looked at Raoul in confusion. "But is this not the Café de Chartres? That is the name above the entrance.

"It now goes under the name of the current owner. It is rather odd that they never removed the former sign."

Christine thought that the restaurant seemed fitting for one of her caliber, since she too displayed herself to the world as a different person and daily lived in two masquerades – one with the public, who knew her only as Christine Grendahl, born in Sweden, and one in secret as the wife of the elusive Phantom of the Opera who she knew better than most and at the same time felt as if she did not know at all.

The maitre de seated them near a corner of the restaurant at a table with chairs upholstered in red velvet. The entire restaurant had windows all around, with square pillars flanking them. Each pillar displayed an elaborate fresco of oil paintings of ancient Rome, featuring colorful images of graceful women in flowing tunics with large tiered baskets of fruit, flowers, and plants they held atop their heads and smaller pictures of flowers, scenery, and scrolls decorating the remainder. These square colonnades repeated themselves, also sectioning off areas of the restaurant. Lustrous gold rimmed the area, the ceiling also an elaborate work of art, and myriad golden chandeliers hung from above.

Christine had visited many a posh establishment while in the company of the de Chagnys, especially while they were on holiday, so was not overwhelmed by the lavishness of the grand eatery. As they were seated, her eye was drawn to the nearest colonnade. Below the dark-haired woman displaying her bared back to them, a brilliant painting of a dormant volcano and the ancient community beneath reminded her of paintings she had seen of Pompeii during her travels. Little did those unwary citizens know that without warning the mound of earth looming in the background would explode, raining a fountain of molten lava on their heads.

The scenario reminded her of Erik, looming over the theater in the background as the Opera Ghost known and feared, a threat to all in his vicinity who did not do as he wished. He too could go into volcanic rages…and the dark-haired woman in the spotlight was reminiscent of his star, displaying to all who lived there the fruit of her labors…

She rubbed her forehead in weary disgust. Arabella was right, her imagination was far too fanciful. But the attempt to forget that part of her life for at least the span of a meal was made all the more difficult since Raoul seemed just as adamant to reintroduce the topic of The Phantom. He shared his news halfway through the third course.

"I want to reassure you both that all is being done to catch the despicable madman who has made it his life's mission to terrorize those at the opera. I received the name of a man, a historian, who has an old map of Paris…"

Arabella cast a cautionary glance toward Christine who had set down her forkful of fowl, uneaten, and clutched the tablecloth at her lap.

"- Raoul, perhaps now is not the time."

"- What good would a map do?"

Raoul looked at each of the women who spoke at once, then directed his attention back to Christine and answered her.

"There is an underground cave beneath the city, with passageways I have heard that lead back to the time of the Gauls. That _must_ be where the scoundrel is hiding. Perhaps he found a hidden entrance inside or even outside the Opera House… "

The more he spoke of Erik's search and imminent capture, the more queasy she became, unable to finish her _confit_ of duck and sautéed potatoes. Once dessert was served, she barely touched her torte. The conversation had shifted to mundane details of the workings behind an opera but her thoughts remained in the trap of all Raoul had revealed.

He would kill him if he must, so he had said.

Both men would kill each other…

To tell Raoul the truth of the identity of his villainous Ghost, even if she dared, would make no difference. He wished to rid the Opera House of him, like unwanted vermin … Many in their remote community of Haworth had felt the same about Erik the gypsy servant. Perhaps Raoul did as well though he never admitted to such a foul notion …

"Christine, are you feeling ill?"

She was, actually, and blotted her napkin to her lips. "I suppose I'm not accustomed to all this rich food."

"Do you wish to go?"

"No, please," she said, "finish your desserts."

She lifted her eyes to the window, her breath freezing in her throat along with her heart which surely had ceased to beat.

In the darkness partly concealed by a tall hedge and standing at the outside fringes of the colonnade, she barely discerned the shadowy outline of a man in a dark cloak. Beneath his broad-brimmed hat she glimpsed a flash of white.

_He wears a long cloak and a black mask," Meg had said, "like a bandit, hiding his identity, though Winnie said it's white and covers only half his face._

Dear God…

Swiftly she rose from her chair.

"Christine?" Raoul and Arabella asked in concern.

"Forgive me. I-I need to excuse myself for a moment."

"Of course," Raoul said in understanding.

She turned before Arabella could offer to escort her to the lavatory. Once out of their sight, she hurried to the nearest exit door.

xXx


	53. Chapter 53

**A/N: Guys- it's only been two days that they've been apart. lol Patience my friends…good things come to those who wait, the harsher the conflict the better the resolution and all that… ;-) Also, remember, Christine is **_**supposed**_** to be above learning the opera. 0-:-) … And now…**

* * *

**LIII**

.

The icy chill hit her the moment she rushed outdoors into the dark night, the absence of her cloak strongly felt, but Christine did not dare return for it. Anxious she might miss him, she lifted the hem of her skirts and raced around the building and along the colonnade to the garden entrance, grateful that Raoul and Arabella were seated with their backs to those windows and would not see her running like a madwoman alongside the building.

The closest lamplight stood a lengthy distance away, its flame barely penetrating the carriage pulled by horses in the street to her right and providing a scant glow to see one of two long hedges that loomed over her head and traveled far into the distance. The second hedge was obliterated in shadow and she avoided it, hurrying to the outside one, where she had seen him...

...but he stood nowhere in sight.

In helpless frustration, she hurried further along the hedgerow and away from the lit restaurant until the darkness felt complete.

"Erik?" she called out softly. "Are you there…? I know you're there, I saw you, and I know you must have seen me…" Her last words were certain though her voice was not. "Please, _please_…" She had almost reached the end of the shrubbery. "Show yourself to me. I must see you. Must speak with you …"

Hesitating only a moment to enter the obscure darkness, fighting off the old childhood fear, she rounded the corner and nervously looked between the tall hedges into a long void of thick black shadow. Two edges of the restaurant windows could be seen and appeared as slim lines of distant golden light. She had not realized she had walked so far.

The darkness within was absolute, her eyes barely adjusting to see form or shadow, and she sensed that this is where he would hide. Blindly she began to make her way along the path, peering hard and willing herself to see, her footing uncertain. She grabbed at the prickly hedge for balance when she almost stumbled. Last night's snow had been scarce and what little remained had melted into slush in the unusually warm day. A pity, for a ground of gleaming white would have surely acted as a beacon to find him.

"Erik … please answer me." Her voice, barely raised above a whisper carried in the icy stillness. She shivered from the chill of the night. "Don't leave me in the dark like this! … I _must_ speak to you …"

At once, her eyes detected what appeared to be the dim outline of a cloaked figure standing motionless in the path some distance away. His back was to her – it had to be a man – the form stood tall, the shoulders wide. Her heart skipped a beat then began to race.

"Erik…?" she cried in relief mixed with a plea to know if it was truly him … "Please end this awful silence … there is so much we need to speak of … so much I want to know …"

The shock of seeing him there – if it was him – it _must_ be him – of knowing he had followed her across Paris and had been spying on them addled her mind. She could not sort out her thoughts to know how to proceed with what to say when a thousand words were battling to be freed at once.

"Why did you do it? You must have had a reason. Was it revenge? Do you hate me so much? Is that why you're here tonight, hiding in this wretched darkness? Have you come to enact your threat against my friends? Would you really _kill_ the Vicomte out of spite? Or hurt Arabella, like you did when you threatened to strangle her? She told me of that day she found your caves – I don't blame you, I know you were trying to protect Jacques from being discovered and yourself – but this!" She shook her head in frustration, quietly answering her own stilted muddle of questions. "This is not you, Erik. This is not who you are, the boy I grew up with, the boy I knew from the Heights …"

Silence remained her only answer, further infuriating her. Was he so incensed by her words that he coldly shut her out once more? Did anything she say have any affect on him whatsoever? She moved ahead with steady determination, unable to make out the path her feet took, the tears filming her eyes and blurring her vision making it twice as difficult to see. She worked to make more sense of what she said.

"I swear I didn't mean to disobey you, I had no choice. But what did you expect? I cannot arouse suspicion – for your sake, for the children's – and my disappearance caused plenty of that…"

The unending silence resounded, louder than a death knell, and brought to mind all the suffering he had made her endure over the months, _the years..._

"You have no right to be angry with me! _You_ abandoned _me –_ I _did_ _not_ escape! I _kept my word _to stay in those horrid dark dungeons with you _– and I would have stayed! _Do you hear?"

_Oh, if only he had wanted her to!_

Christine worked hard to keep her voice low, her emotions threatening to get a stranglehold and her last words coming out vexed and unsteady. She peered into the veil of awful darkness until her eyes hurt but at last she could make out his cloak ruffling in the wind. Taking a few uncertain steps, she felt encouraged when he did not move away and appealed to his love for music, an aspiration she knew they once and always shared.

"You are supposed to be _**my teacher**._ You are a genius, a true maestro – _and** you** said_ I wasn't ready! So, _why_ have you left me to my own devices...? I feel as if I am floundering, adrift in a world I know nothing about – actually _belonging_ to an opera company – it is all so new to me, both exciting and frightening, and I need your guidance! This is _**your **_opera – surely you wish for it to succeed…?" She gripped the bush, barely aware of the leaves' serrated edges and tiny twigs that dug into her flesh. "Answer me, Erik – _**stop behaving like some ghostly Phantom and answer me!**_"

The horrifying thought occurred that she had been mistaken, that he was not Erik, that in the distance and the darkness she only imagined what she hoped to see and now addressed a stranger.

And then, in the gentle gust of the breeze, she heard her name tremble in the breath of his sigh.

"_Christine…"_

Joy surged up to drown her heart in waves of icy relief and fear that he might now vanish, and it quenched her vocal chords so that she could not speak, save for his name that came out in a choked whisper -

"_Erik._"

She reached out to him with a trembling hand, silently beseeching him to turn around, to acknowledge her presence, to come to her …

"Christine!"

Her other arm was grabbed from behind before she could make sense of what was happening, and she whirled in shock to face Arabella.

"What are you doing out here and without a cloak? You'll catch your death in this freezing night!"

"It's Erik – he's here!" She turned to look back at the path.

The silent figure was gone.

"No! Oh, where did you go?! _**Come back!**_"

She lunged forward and almost lost her footing in the slippery grass. Arabella saved her from falling, tightening her grip on her arm.

"Christine – come away. You only thought you saw him, surely. I doubt he followed you halfway across town on foot."

"No…" She shook her head, scouring the area for any sign of his presence. "It was him."

"Think, Christine." Arabella shook her slightly by the arms, gaining her attention. "Would he truly risk being seen in public when Raoul said there is an ongoing search for the Phantom? He is even trying to get the police involved, though so far they've paid him little heed. But everything could change if he does put out that reward for his capture…"

Arabella didn't understand, no one did, and she didn't know about the threat to Raoul either. If Erik wanted something badly enough, he would risk life and limb to attain his goal, thinking it a challenge to sharpen his wits, a dangerous game of stalker to his prey. He had learned to blend into shadows, to become invisible like a ghost – why should he not pursue them in the dark night?

"I tell you he was here," Christine said as Arabella put her arm around her shoulders and gently forced her to retrace their steps to the outside hedge and back toward the restaurant. "I heard his voice – did you not hear him speak my name? Surely you must have heard!"

"I heard nothing but the wind rustling through the bushes. It was reckless of you to venture outside alone," Arabella chided quietly and surreptitiously motioned to a tall, stout man in unkempt clothes who boldly stared at both women from a darkened doorway across the street. "This is the crowded city, not the empty countryside to which you are accustomed. Paris is dangerous at night, with those of questionable ilk roaming the streets. It's a good thing I decided to check on you and that the doorman told me you left in such haste. You are twice as fortunate that Raoul has no knowledge of your wild venture into the night..."

The words made Christine wince as she began to comprehend the gravity of what Arabella told her. "He doesn't suspect then?"

"Why do you think I am trying so to get you back into the café before he learns of this? I cannot trust the discretion of the doorman. He asked me if I should inform the maî·tre d', who in turn would tell Raoul. Of course I told him no, but I cannot guarantee that will prevent him from doing what he feels is his obligation…"

Upset, Christine wished only to flee from Arabella's protective hold and find her evasive Phantom, but logic persisted, muting the thwarted cries of her heart. Her friend was right. She could not chase him in darkness through a city still foreign to her, not when she didn't even know where he would be! And Raoul could never know Erik was there…

"Promise me you won't say a word. About Erik being here."

"If he was here …"

Christine tensed at the quiet, placating words, and Arabella hastened to explain.

"His absence these past four years has left such a terrible strain on you, and then to find him again so suddenly and lose contact with him just as swiftly – I fear you are now seeing him when he's not there – only because you wish for it so badly." Christine shook her head to refuse, but Arabella went on, "Surely we would have _heard_ him if he had been there. The path beneath our feet is not quiet with this melting snow. We would have heard his footsteps, Christine."

"He's learned to be silent –"

"It is late and twice as dark where you thought you saw him. The distance was too great for him to travel in such a few short seconds to be invisible to the eye – and he is not a ghost. We were speaking of him earlier, your thoughts were full of him. It was only a trick of your mind, nothing more…"

"But I _heard_ him speak my name. It was as if he whispered in my ear, I c-could hear him so clearly."

"It was only the wind. Look at you, you're trembling and your teeth are near chattering. We must get you out of this cold before you grow ill."

Arabella continued toward the restaurant, keeping one arm tightly around Christine, acting both as a comfort and hindrance, clearly concerned she would break away to chase her Phantom of the Night. Christine might believe Arabella's rational persuasions save for one verity she did not mention that her friend could not refute, but she had no wish to convey. The realization only now came to her and bruised her tender heart, causing it to bleed anew.

In the chill air the barest trace of a fragrance had lingered where she had stood, one of heady spice, exotic and unfamiliar to her in all of Paris … except deep below ground in the caverns he made his home.

**x**

Hours later, again hidden and locked away within her dressing room bedchamber, Christine paced the floor, restless and unable to sleep. Angry contempt and bitter hopelessness played a frenzied tug of war with her heart. With the eternal two days that had passed since she'd last seen Erik, she wondered yet again how she would manage to exist through this hell he had fashioned for her and how she could even _begin_ to reach him.

How was she to continue in this vein – expected to behave normally and above suspicion? If more days followed like the last two, soon the entire theater might come to doubt her sanity. And they had every right to call her mad, despite Arabella's assurances that she was sane. Because, even after all the havoc he created, after the months of his bullying and torments and threats, and now the cruelty of his cold rejection, Christine felt incomplete without him. She bitterly despised him, she hopelessly loved him – and with every breath she wanted him back.

Coming abreast of the mirror, she turned to look into its cold polished metal. "Why did you not come to me tonight? If you will not reveal yourself, will you at least answer me through the looking glass now…?"

She lifted her chin when the usual irksome silence met her soft question.

"I had _every right_ to be cross with you for your cruel deception – do you intend to hold my angry outburst against me forever – is that what this is about?" She lowered her arms to her sides – "I'm sorry I slapped you" – Then frowned in remembered pain. "No, I'm not. You deserved it. Those soft lips of yours spouted their own venom of harsh and vicious lies, those hypnotic eyes of gold luring me to trust in your deceit again and again – I lied about you to Berta _once_, _**one**__ **night**_**,** four years ago. You lied repeatedly to me for **_countless weeks_** – _does that not make you many times guiltier than I?!_"

She sighed in vexation and began to pace again. "Your punishment is unjust – damn it, Erik, I _**know**_ you were there tonight."

Her words were full of conviction though her mind had begun to doubt, wondering if in her desire to have him with her she _had_ fabricated his distant image and his voice, as Arabella believed, as Christine herself had begun to imagine before he whispered her name. But that did not explain his scent, that unusual appealing aroma of candle smoke and ink and exotic spice. Unless all her senses were deluding her, and she neither saw, smelled, nor heard his presence…

And now he had her questioning her mind and the reality of her experience.

"How long do you intend on making me suffer? Are you angry that I disobeyed you? Is that why you ran from me?"

Had he truly been there in the darkness between hedges? Was he hidden behind the mirror watching her now?

"You coerced me into making a vow never to see the Vicomte, who is only _a friend_, and though I have tried to follow your instructions, I cannot avoid such outings, like tonight, without betraying your identity – _is that what you wish?_"

She paced a short distance away. Again Raoul had expressed his intent to take her and Arabella to supper soon and visit another dining establishment. Again Christine had tried to maneuver her way out of the arrangement, without success. Indeed, he would not leave the threshold of her dressing room until he had secured her promise to accompany them this coming weekend.

Despite her and Arabella's reassurances, Raoul was still gravely concerned for her welfare, and Christine now realized such outings to see for himself that she was indeed alive and unharmed would better persuade him that the lies she told were truths. There was no reason to tell Raoul the reality of the situation, not after hearing his fiery discourse of his deadly plans for the Opera Ghost. To tell him would only put Erik in greater danger. Raoul was not one to run from a fight, and if she explained that she could no longer share his company because the Phantom forbade it, admitting that he was her teacher and manager and that Raoul's life could be in jeopardy if she acted against his wishes, Raoul would not only be angered by the Phantom's manipulations – he would sound the cry to battle.

She could not protect his life any more than she could protect Erik's. She was playing with fire with a heroic escort who would willingly charge into the flames on her behalf, especially if that meant he could abolish the terrible Opera Ghost, who just as readily waited for the opportunity to crush his opponent.

What _acceptable_ choices did she have?

She could either put her beloved Phantom in danger or put her dear friend in danger.

Neither choice was a choice at all but a torment – and certainly not acceptable. She already suffered for taking the life of a man she did not even like. She did not wish for such a harsh responsibility that would cause harm to either of those she cared about – but no matter which way she chose, to tell or not to tell, to go or not to go, she could not win.

Someone would get hurt. It was inevitable and it was imminent.

She gripped both sides of her head, feeling so wretchedly helpless. She wanted no part of their war, feeling split down the middle, the ammunition from both rivals ripping through her soul, and she failed to understand why she must fully submit to either man. Why must each of them have his own way, with no room for compromise? Why could Raoul not see that the opera was far better with the Phantom's involvement, and how could Erik not know that he alone always possessed her heart and soul? Even in the explosive act of their lovemaking she had softly cried _**his**_ name, without meaning to, _not_ the Vicomte's.

Had he forgotten? Had he not heard?

At the time she had hoped he failed to comprehend, thinking him only the Phantom. Now knowing he was Erik, she dearly wished that he had heard her breathe his name and could now begin to understand her love for him was true and always had been deeply rooted in her heart. Twice before he had stopped her from proclaiming her deep affection for him in those last days together at The Heights, unwilling or unable to believe she could truly feel that way. Would he listen now? Would he even _believe_ her since he was always so ready to think the worst about her and every one of her blasted intentions?

Oh, _why_ did she not tell him when he asked her at Christmas dinner to speak of Erik and what he was to her? Why had she refused? If she had said that he was the boy she loved and always would love – would it have made a difference?

_**She**_ had seen and known and heard. Had _seen_ the desire burn flame-hot in his eyes, igniting her with an inner fire that made her desperate for his touch, had _known_ and shared his obsession to become one in physical unity, had _heard_ his hoarse commands to tell him that she was and always would be his in the moment before he wholly claimed her…

What had happened to _change_ all that? Was it only because his evil little masquerade had ended? But that made no sense…

Christine turned to the mirror.

"Why did you leave me?" she whispered sadly. "After all of what we shared…? You said it was for the best. The first time you killed me when you left. Was _that_ for the best…? You brought me back to life when you took me and forced me to remain with you in your dark and brutal Hades. And now, now I would claw through brimstone and the fires of hell to find my way back to you, through every one of those beastly dark corridors and vile traps – if it meant living forever with _**you**_ in your cold tomb … _**That**_ is what is for the best, you hateful, unfeeling rogue, though you are clearly too damned blind to see it and stubborn to know it…."

She laughed then, a tremulous, hard laugh to mock her pain lest she drown beneath the weight of her sorrow. "But then, you always have been as stubborn and ornery as a goat. And you must be emotionally blind as well, after living in the darkness, away from humanity for three years … my God, Erik, _what happened to you…?_"

A soft knock sounded at the door. "Christine? It's Meg."

At the uncertainty in the girl's voice, Christine wiped the bitter tears from her cheeks with her fingertips and moved toward the door. Upon opening it, Meg looked at her curiously, noting her bed gown and wrapper.

"I heard you stirring. I didn't think I woke you…"

At the question in Meg's voice, Christine shook her head. "No, you didn't. I couldn't sleep. Please, come in."

"I'm sorry I wasn't able to come earlier. Maman had errands for me. I know it's rather late…"

"It's alright, Meg." Christine closed the door and turned the key. "This is actually better, since no one will be near to disturb us."

Meg looked around the dressing room, empty of all but them, and shook her head.

"Disturb us? I thought I heard you talking to someone … but no one is here."

Yes, soon they would all think her mad.

"I want you to show me other parts of the opera house I haven't yet seen."

"What – now?"

Meg continued to regard Christine warily, as if she might suddenly shed all her clothing and run screeching through the opera house like a banshee. She sighed in impatience, her emotions high, her resolve strengthened tenfold after her little talk with her absent Ghost in the mirror, and finally she decided to confide in the ballet dancer.

"You did hear me speak to someone, Meg. You see, Erik – that is, the Phantom and I had a quarrel before he brought me back here, and now he won't see me or communicate with me. I've been trying to reach him, by talking to him, hoping he might be close and will hear."

"Erik? That's his name? I _thought_ _so_ when you said you dreamt of him this morning."

Of course the shrewd girl would latch onto her blunder. "You mustn't tell a soul. He values his secrecy. Promise me, Meg."

"I won't tell. Though it is odd to think of the Phantom having a normal name, like everyone else …"

"Don't let that fool you," Christine said grimly. "He is far from ordinary. 'The Phantom' better suits him." Especially with the way he was behaving now.

"But why should you think he would hear you in a closed room?" Meg asked curiously.

Christine hesitated, not yet ready to tell Meg about the mirror door since evidently she had no knowledge of its existence. "Just a hunch, really."

Hurriedly she dressed in her simple day dress of earlier, and the two left the dressing room to begin their clandestine tour.

**x**

"Is there somewhere specific you wish to go?" Meg asked, her words sounding almost ghostly in the darkened halls, lit with few torches.

"I heard there is a box where the Phantom usually delivers his notes to the managers and your mother collects them…?"

"Yes, of course. I'll take you there."

It was long past midnight, the eerie emptiness of the theater attesting to the lateness of the hour. With few signs of life – a stagehand who walked far ahead of them down the corridor they now took, the man disappearing behind a tapestry hanging down to form one of many curtains – and two bleary-eyed old women quietly stitching cloth – the place felt like a tomb. Neither of the seamstresses spoke but stared at the girls with suspicious curiosity.

Once they entered the quiet theater from the stage wing, empty of any observers, Christine took her first relaxed breath.

She moved toward the center stage, remembering yesterday, when she first let her voice ring for those who had never heard it. She had been terrified, afraid the years of silence had done too much damage, and had been ready to run off the stage. Her eyes had searched the rafters, hoping for a sign of life from her dark Angel. At that point she remembered – every song had _always_ been for him. He was her teacher, responsible for bringing her to this point. And he was her lover, the boy who once told her he did not believe in angels but if an Angel of Music existed, he hoped one day she might find him … and she had found him. She had found Erik and she had found her Angel and would do so again. With those memories to sustain her, her song had rung forth, Christine hoping that if she sang Aminta's lament from her heart, he would somehow know it was for him that her soul cried. And he would then come to her.

But he had not appeared.

There had been a movement at the curtain that shrouded the closest private box while she had sung. She had then wondered if it was real or if she imagined it, her senses compelled from the memory of another time when she stood in this spot and had seen that same curtain stir, proof someone was watching. Later, he admitted he had spied on her.

She stared at the curtain now. "Is it here, then?" she asked Meg, never lowering her attention from the dark red fabric.

"You're looking at it."

"What?" Christine glanced at her in surprise then back to the curtained alcove. "There?"

"Yes, that's Box Five. The Phantom's box."

"_His_ box…?" She felt a little faint with the knowledge.

"It has been his box for three years. He explicitly has forbidden anyone else the use of it, commanding it always be kept empty, for him."

His box. The same box in which she sat when Raoul escorted her to the opera two and a half years ago. Did the Vicomte know it was the Phantom's box then? He must have known! He had made it his mission to learn all about the Opera Ghost, and his father would have informed him before he put him in charge. Did the Phantom later learn that she had been there? In _his_ box? With_ Raoul?_ Had he suspected she would return someday and put his vengeful plan into motion to abduct her then?

Damn all these questions, all with the cruel probability of never being resolved!

"Will you show me the way up there?"

Meg was clearly hesitant. "Maman is the only one allowed … but this late, and being as you are his wife, he might not mind."

"You think he might be near to know of my presence?"

"He has had a habit of roaming about the opera house at night…"

Meg seemed uneasy to say more, and recalling the scandalous stories of his nocturnal trysts, Christine left it at that, not wishing to recall those incidents and pushing them from her mind. If he was nearby to see and hear her exploits, all the better.

Meg took a torch from the wall and led Christine backstage, through a narrow corridor that led to the foyer and the three sets of public stairs that led to the balcony. The dancer took the right staircase and Christine followed as they made their ascent into the shadowed area. The flame of the torch seemed weaker as they moved higher, barely separating the darkness only for it to gather again once they passed. Christine suppressed a shiver, her resolve to find him stronger than her fear to be without light.

All at once she noticed someone creeping alongside them and drew in a startled gasp – which she released in a quiet breath once she realized it was her reflection from the mirrors they had reached that decorated the wall of the landing.

"It's just through there," Meg motioned to a closed crimson curtain. "I don't know exactly where the box for the notes is, since I was never with Maman when she collected them, but it shouldn't be difficult to find."

"You're not coming?"

"Someone should stand watch …"

"I'll need the torch to see."

"Take it." Meg lit a candle from an elaborate gold sconce on the wall then passed the torch to Christine.

She eyed it doubtfully, thinking of the heavy velvet curtains and the small, enclosed area.

"It's alright," Meg seemed to read her mind. "There's a holder in there for it. I would prefer the candle so I can blow it out if I hear anyone coming."

Christine nodded and took the torch. The flame still seemed weak but at least it was stronger than a candle. She held her breath and parted the curtain, holding the torch before her as she entered. The holder was to her immediate left, and she placed the torch in the empty bracket. Looking around, she wondered where to search first and moved toward the curtain that concealed the box from the theater.

Her heart leapt at the spicy scent that lingered there, _his_ scent, and moisture rimmed her eyes. He must have been there recently. How recently? Had she just missed him? Had he again been watching her?

Caressing the fold of the curtain, she drew it gently aside. The box afforded a clear view to the stage, one she remembered from her solitary visit as a guest to this opera house, and in the solitude she allowed a tear to gather at her lashes and slide down her cheek. She had been so close to him then and not even known it! Though she remembered how strongly she had felt his presence - and inhaled a sudden breath.

Had he _been there_ that night? Watching her as she watched the opera?

Oh, it was all too awful to speculate – that he would have purposely kept himself hidden from her – and she forced her mind to the task at hand. What exactly she looked for she didn't know. The box for notes, yes, but perhaps a secret entrance as well? He had to have a way to reach his box without anyone seeing him.

Christine studied the ivory and gold wallpaper for crevices that would imply a hidden door but found nothing. She glanced at the two rows of four plush chairs, doubting anything of merit could be found there, then noticed the white Grecian column at the end of them – half a column really, seeming to be one with the wall, the other half perhaps disappearing into the next box. Eyeing it closely, she moved around the large round protrusion of pillar, touching the upraised scrolls and indentations of the decor, pressing against each, while recalling some of Erik's inventions from The Heights – tiny hidden knobs to press that would suddenly unhinge and produce a hidden compartment. The light from the torch barely illuminated this area, and she considered bringing the flame closer when her questing fingers encountered another indentation she pressed.

This time, she heard a click.

Her heart pounded in excitement as she carefully eyed the pillar, noting a slight deformation at the bottom. She knelt to see a small hidden door had come partway open.

She opened it, her mouth going dry to see a second door inside, the shadow of a large keyhole just visible.

_Could it be…?_

Eagerly she pulled the black velvet ribbon from inside her bodice that held the key from the cave door. Worried the troublesome chain would break under the key's weight, she had threaded it through the ribbon and hung it around her neck when she dressed, having hoped that an opportunity would present itself like the one now laid before her.

"Please work," she whispered, then took in a nervous breath and held it, carefully fitting the key into the lock. She was relieved it slid into the slot without a problem. Turning the key, she heard a second click, her heart now a metronome that surely eclipsed the fastest setting as swiftly as it beat within her breast. The inner door opened with a nudge of her hand.

The white outline of an envelope lay inside. From Madame to the Phantom, or …?

Withdrawing the parchment, she immediately noticed a skull of red wax that sealed the flap, and the thin black rim painted around its edges.

Pressing the note to her heart with a little cry, she did not stop once to consider returning the Opera Ghost's missive to its cubbyhole and closed the hidden door, again locking it and slipping the ribbon with the key back over her head before hurrying to stand.

Perhaps here she would find some answers at last!

She withdrew the torch and parted the curtain, hoping Meg wouldn't notice the envelope she hid clutched at her side in her skirts as she handed her the torch.

Thankfully Meg's attention was elsewhere, on the stairwell.

Christine looked that way. "Did you hear something?"

"I'm not certain." Meg glanced at her and reclaimed the torch. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

"Yes, I think so."

Meg again sent another sharp stare in the direction of the stairs. "We must go. Was there anywhere else you wished to visit?"

There was, but Meg's tone was anxious, as if she feared getting caught, and Christine now wished only to return to her room and break the seal of the envelope, to learn what instructions he had written.

**xXx**

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**A/N: ****Thank you so much for the wonderful reviews – they encourage me and are appreciated. :)**  



	54. Chapter 54

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews! :) Over 800?! I am stunned and very happy that most of you are still enjoying my bizarre little tale! And no, I have no idea how many more chapters, but there is still a long way to go with all I have planned. (*rubs hands in wicked glee)- ... Now, how about a nice chocolate walnut brownie, with a thin layer of revelation for icing? ;-)**

* * *

**LIV**

_._

_Love _**_Erik?! _****_How can any woman in her right mind love someone like him!_**_ He's __**cruel**__ and insensitive and __**cold**__… _

Cruel …

Cold…

_He's __**brooding**__ and __**dark**__ and at times he __**frightens**__ me…A woman would have to be _**_mad_**_ to entrust her heart to Erik or consider him for a husband… _

Mad…mad…

_Sometimes I wish he'd never come to The Heights, that he'd just go away and leave me in peace!_

Away…

**Go away**…

_- I __kept my word __to stay in those horrid dark dungeons with you …__**and I would have stayed**__…Do you hear…?_

The Phantom clutched the coarse wig on both sides of his head, cursing her words that echoed and spun with ruthless abandon inside his mind.

Those voices. Past. Present. To "hear" was all he could do - _her voice_ that would not stop, would not leave, tormenting him with its swarm of contradictions.

What was the lie? What was the truth?

Did she even _know how to speak it?_

The Phantom blinked away the accursed moisture that had gathered in his eyes and struggled to control his erratic breathing, his body winded from his latest tempest.

He could still recall the night he first saw her. Oddly, A storm of epic proportions had marked the beginning of his trust, and ten years later, another cloudburst had pealed to the end of it. Rain giving life and taking life away…

He had been a skeleton of a boy, abused and rejected, who met a petite fairy princess extending to him her hand in friendship, even after she'd seen his accursed face. Never had he experienced such a phenomenon and had been stunned to receive her acceptance. In all the years they grew up together, he did not once presume to be more than a friend, thinking such hopes to gain her love in vain. He had not allowed himself to believe that such a sweet maiden could grow into the beauty who would truly care for the ogre, as on occasion she had done in their make-believe play as children – arguing that she did not like some endings in her Gothic tales they imitated, pitying the beasts and claiming the tales should be changed ...

Just as she did not like the ending of his opera and wished it to change, upset with the way Aminta was written. Of course, she'd been correct – he had based the character of the avaricious gypsy on Christine and his last memories of her. Leading the hapless Don Juan into her web of sweet seduction and lies, while falling in love with the handsome wealthy merchant's son, both of them plotting Don Juan's ultimate destruction. He had intended her involvement as part of her punishment, to make her play the role of her own treachery again and again...

She had exhibited emotion but not as expected – instead angry that Aminta showed no love toward Don Juan at any time during the play.

He had argued that Aminta did not know how to love, greed her true soul mate, and stipulated that all romantic love was shallow and the moral of his story.

She had staunchly defended the emotion while he had just as resolutely scorned any individual who allowed himself to surrender to such an idealistic concept...

Not only was he a liar and a beast, he was also a fraud and a fool. What he felt ran deep in his marrow, hardly superficial, and threatened to shatter his heart indefinitely.

The Phantom stared hard at the organ pipes without truly seeing them. His fingers instinctively sought the keys so familiar, and he played a haunting melody, trying to drown out Christine's divergent words from four years past and the present of three days ago. Becoming his adversary, the music instead gave vision to thought. It raked twisted furrows of confusion in his mind, while dim images, once battled with to be forgotten, arose once more to play upon the harsh landscape of cruel recollection.

Her fierce admission in England to her old nursemaid – the last he had heard Christine speak of him until bringing her down to these dark dungeons – had branded through his heart into the walls of his soul. _Those words alone_ mirrored the malevolent ones spat at him from his executioner as a mode of torture, in the black moment before his world vanished. The fierce disillusionment in his fallen little angel and the loss of dreams that literally became nightmares filled the pain-wracked weeks of his bleak recovery. He had forced himself to recall each hateful word of spite and rejection again and again in order to gird himself in stony indifference using hatred for his tonic. It had been a necessary and excruciating lesson. Later, the torture he self-inflicted became a means of survival – equipping his soul with the cold, unfeeling armor necessary to become the monster commanded of him in Persia.

The Phantom shook his head free of that hellish past and concentrated on the present conundrum, his dark chords turning sorrowful, bitter, weeping into the lake chamber.

At least her revelation of years ago _**had made sense**_ with all of what happened before: her decision to remain at The Grange and distance herself from him the strongest evidence of her altered feelings, if indeed such feelings ever existed. If she had felt anything more than friendship for him, it had been weak and easily manipulated.

He had accepted it, he had understood it.

So what in the bloody hell had she meant that she would have **_stayed_ **in these dark dungeons with him? Was she trying to earn back his trust with the proclamation that she would have kept her vow had he not sent her above?

Held up to those final days in England, her beseeching words in the icy garden of shadows made no sense, and he struggled to find a rational answer from the insanity of the past eleven weeks …

He never once believed she had grown to love him. Hell, for the majority of their time together she did not even like him. Nor could he blame her; he had been a beast, causing her endless suffering and heartache in his twisted plot. Yes, she had whispered his forgotten name in the moment of their greatest passion, but throughout her stay in his labyrinth of caverns she had often confused the Erik of old with the Phantom of the present. The final evening he had been with her, as Erik, they had shared a fiery embrace on the moors. Perhaps in the darkest part of her mind she had recognized his touch while he made love to her in her bed and confused the two personas yet again. It had been nothing more than a haze of the familiar surfacing into the misguided identity of his masquerade.

She, as others before her, had been drawn to the mysterious guise of the Phantom he created, a quixotic and illusory façade that veiled the horrible truth of his secret. She had given her body to the Phantom, intrigued with his sordid reputation as a lover despite her disgust and desire not to be fascinated with the scandal – that must be what compelled her to seek out his expertise of bedroom affairs, just as those fool little dancers did, a few still occasionally creeping through the corridors in the dead of night with the futile hope he would come to them … Coupled with his music, Christine had been powerless. His expression of his soul through his music had cast a spell on Christine as long as he had known her, even without his selfish manipulations to entice her emotions. Before she begged for his touch, they had engaged in a different duet of fiery ardor, his aria of the Point of No Return. Her mind and body thus seduced, she had sought fully to know the experience of physical passion. Unfortunately for her the myth fragmented into a kaleidoscope of horror, and she found beneath his mask not the alluring Don Juan of Opera House legend but the twisted face of the unwanted beast she long ago had spurned.

Her feelings were made even more clear when not even a day into her return to the world above she again shared company with her insufferable Vicomte of the perfect face. The Phantom had expected no less, but that did not make his sacrifice for her peace of mind any easier to bear.

He had waited for their emergence from her dressing room and pursued them through the city, **not** to kill the bloody Vicomte or his prying cousin as Christine so greatly feared in pleading for their lives – though the desire to rid himself of the pompous noble who always sniffed around her skirts never strayed far from conscious thought. Instead, he had followed on his stallion, to ensure that the fool did not spirit Christine away from the Opera House in the vain hope of extending her absence from it, perhaps to plant ideas into her mind not to sing the Phantom's opera by making her believe it was for the best.

The idiot had clearly discouraged her from sharing her exquisite voice before this, and if he would have attempted something so foolish as to hide her away, the Phantom _would_ know where and secretly intercede before Christine could be heavily persuaded again.

He was sure it was not the first time she had been coerced to the Vicomte's will.

A manipulator of emotions, the Phantom knew how to force obedience – but never had done so with Christine. With her, he had always extended a choice. Perhaps not fair, and cruel to her way of thinking, but a choice even so. The one time he used his hypnotic skills to coax her senses had been solely for her comfort, when he sang her the lullaby to relieve her terrible distress.

An arrogant nobleman accustomed to having his every whim met by all that came into his vicinity, the Vicomte would not be so lenient as to allow Christine to follow her dreams. He would shape them into what he chose for her –

She had changed – and _he_ had changed her. And from the day of her return to The Heights, he had made the Phantom into his worst enemy.

Five weeks in the de Chagny's foul home had transformed his Little Angel from the wild, sweet girl he knew into a coquette of a stranger he did not understand. Henri's whipping of four years ago, the night before her homecoming, had been accompanied by heated warnings to steer clear of Christine and not interfere with Henri's plans for her – the point driven home with each lash that tore into his flesh while two of Henri's cronies held him bound – that she had found someone else, a Vicomte worthy of her time and affections, "a highly respected gentleman who could give her true riches, not a scarred, vagabond gypsy who could give her nothing but shame."

Yet even Henri's embittered threats and severe punishments had not swayed Erik from his objective to be with her; only Christine had done that with her capricious tongue.

The following day when she approached Erik at The Summit, Christine had driven him to madness with her flattering talk of the damned Vicomte followed by her demands on his own bleeding heart – making unjust comparisons – and he reacted in fury– unleashing his passion for her that had burned for months. She had responded to his awkward and obsessive overture of seduction, whether from mutual desire or curiosity, he never had known, never could ask. He had been unable to look at her afterward, angry with the Fates that separated them those eternal weeks, angry with Christine that she had changed enough that he felt uncertain of her feelings. And he left as soon as Berta tended to the newly opened stripes on his back, later returning for his shirt, only to eavesdrop and hear Christine's confession to Berta that demolished any shred of remaining hope: her repugnant assessment of Erik that followed on the heels of her praiseworthy analysis of the Vicomte.

For once, Henri had not lied – Christine wanted nothing to do with Erik as a lover and everything to do with gaining wealth and status. Later he learned her changed interest in him had been a pretense, a lie; a malicious game to win the Vicomte's favor. Christine had been all that once kept Erik at The Heights. His emotions in turmoil, his every dream destroyed, he left and later almost perished when he reconsidered his haste in not confronting her. Upon his return to England a year later he overheard gossip of her involvement with the wretched boy – clearly not as intimate as he'd been led to believe – but that did not change their current status. Christine herself alluded to it during her stay in his dark caverns. And that morning, he had heard from Madame Giry that Christine was again seeing the damned Vicomte, the boy having visited her dressing room last night. This time, without the company of his interfering cousin.

The Phantom clenched his throbbing fingers into tight fists over the keyboard stained with crimson. Hours, _days_, of relentless playing had not purged her and this searing jealousy from his system. He had orchestrated the events and returned her to her world above, knowing full well what would happen – and by God, somehow he _must_ rid himself of this weakness that seized his mind!

But no…

He could not stop thinking of her, could not stop wanting her…despite her old deceit and this new betrayal. She had forgotten her sacred vows, while he could not expunge them from his heart.

_I __kept my word__ to stay in those horrid dark dungeons with you …__**and I would have stayed**__…_

_But what __**did that mean? **_Did she presume she could have both lives to satisfy her fickle nature? A dalliance with the despicable Vicomte while secretly married to his nemesis, the Phantom of the Opera? Had she actually _believed_ they could revisit mere friendship? They had crossed the line for that, far beyond any point of return. He could never be content with anything more than all of her … could never go back to platonic companionship … and she wanted nothing more, not with the monster she once knew …

So that left ... nothing.

The remembrance of her satin skin and the creamy heat of her supple body drawing him closer, her husky voice begging him to take her, brought new fire to his loins and threatened to unhinge his crumbling resolve.

His mind took him to the night-shrouded garden, where he had turned from her, afraid that another glimpse of his fragile songbird pleading with him for a response would have caused him to swoop on her and carry her away, to ride off with her and blend into the night, never to look back. She had been unable to see him, a piece of good fortune, though his keen nighttime vision had not afforded him the same kindness. The hope in her eyes shimmering with tears, the plea in her soft, anxious voice had haunted him before he fled the torment –

- but in these eight days and nights absent from her company he had almost succumbed twice and taken the path to the mirror door.

With a roar that shook the stillness of the cavern, the Phantom shot up from the bench and grabbed his unfinished score, hurling it to the stones, then pivoted on his heel and struck one of the remaining candelabras still standing to the ground. The flames from the candles extinguished from the wind of their fall but not before catching fire to the paper. With an impatient growl, he kicked at the lit pages of his deplorable start to his new opus, shoving them over the rock cliff to fall into the lake as they disintegrated into a shower of burning ash, so much like his dreams.

No, damn it, NO! He would _**not yield**_ to these feelings! Would not again let her destroy him! He was immune to her, damn it – IMMUNE! Somehow, he must rediscover that blessed plane of indifference, the icy control he had once taught himself to attain.

Her soft words persisted, gently battering against the shuttered windows of his heart, and he sank to the bench again, clutching his bowed head in his hands...

She had said she _needed_ him. She needed her teacher.

He recalled the apprehension in her tone, the lack of self confidence in her voice that she exhibited these past months. She had never been on stage with a full house as a live audience. Never had lived amid the dizzying glamour of the opera, with its many temptations of wicked decadence prevalent among the theater troupe. He had sent her back, an innocent dove among wolves who would gladly tear her to shreds, those who resented her angelic voice along with those who lusted after her haunting beauty – _and woe to any man who acted upon such foul urges!_ He would not hesitate to kill the odious cur …

He had been remiss to withhold his guidance, he could see that now. He had hoped to entrap these wretched feelings and harden his heart once more before they again met. And until he could resurrect the barrier that enabled him to share her company without acting on his own damnable urges to throw himself at her feet in penance – or throw her against the wall with his body in passion – distance was a brutal necessity.

And yet… perhaps there was another way…

He again exploded off the bench to pace the dais, his heart ripped asunder, the steely half calling him a pathetic fool for considering the prospect of any form of reunion, however brief or formal. The vulnerable side persuading such actions, eager to see her and hear his name again on her lips. Logic assured him he had done the proper thing in sending her back while his soul decried such petty assertions – when had he ever done what was _proper?_

He was the ogre of this tale, not the damnable prince!

And yet she _did_ care about the unwanted, the ogres, the beasts and the outcasts … she had not shunned them, had not shunned Jacques, or the Phantom as a boy - as _Erik._ Her heart had been pure, perhaps in that sense, still was …

It was her weakness for a life of plenty that ultimately destroyed her soul.

Forever _she_ was destined to be _his_ weakness, again leading him onto a path of destruction.

She was his weakness then, no matter how violently he tried to purge himself of the addiction. And she was his weakness now, his heart slowly dying in her absence. She was his muse, the music within having grown hollow and harsh. He felt dead without her presence to sustain him. His body ached for her soft warmth and cursed the harsh and rare act of his mercy night after cold, endless night.

How easy it would be to slip through the mirror door…to bring her back into his world, as he once intended she never should leave it. He had brutally seized her innocence, unaware; how he longed to atone for that transgression and teach her the many joys of the flesh. One day, she might even learn to love him as a man and no longer pity him as a monster …

**"DAMN IT – NO!"**

He whirled on his heel, his black velvet wrapper flying about his trousers, and picked up the closest object - his bench - hurling it to crash and splinter at the foot of the stone steps.

She did not belong in this damp darkness that she abhorred and had no reason to hide.

He could not risk being seen above ground…

She belonged to the fresh air and daylight.

He had become a creature of shadows…

She did not deserve to suffer any longer.

He deserved no less…

"M-m-maestro?"

The fear in Jolene's voice broke through the cloud of rage again building to a peak and he spun around to look at where she stood trembling at the bottom of the opposite staircase. Her horrified eyes took in the destruction he had wrought within his chamber of music in the last hour.

Tables and candles overturned, furniture splintered, glass broken, papers scattered upon the stones. Then her gaze lowered and she brought her fingers up to her mouth.

"You're hurt!"

She rushed forward.

He took a wary step back, straightening to his full height in warning. Any injury of the flesh paled to the emotional anguish that ripped his heart.

"What do you want, Jolene?"

The icy chill in his voice froze her ascent and she blinked, unable to pull her attention from his beautiful hands hanging motionless at his sides, their fingertips stained and dripping with blood.

"I-I- The-the exit. To the ou-outside…" she stammered.

The previous night she had expressed her need to go to market, unable to replenish their supplies in the past week due to her fear of leaving Jacques's side, her brother having suffered from a fleeting illness.

"Yes? Did you not find the lever that opens the wall?"

He had crafted the barricade of brick and mortar in the week of the little maid's treachery. It doubled as a secret entrance and stood on a wheeled platform that slid open to reveal a gap leading to the outside, not apparent to those with no awareness of it and who would only see it as a barrier of stone.

She jerked her head in a nod. "The wall opened to gain access to the door, but…" She hesitated and bit the inside of her lip, knowing he would be displeased and uncertain her news was wise in his present state of mind. What had happened to cause such a terrible change in her Maestro? His clothes were disheveled, his jaw unshaven, and his eyes looked bleary as if he had not slept in days. She knew he had not, having heard the mournful organ music throughout the nights. And his hands, his beautiful hands ... Surely he could not be upset about Christine? _He_ had chosen to take the singer back above, stating the time had come, much to Jolene's relief, and she had hoped that life could finally go back to being what it had been. With one difference...

He narrowed his eyes. They flickered like fire.

"Go on."

"The key, the one kept hidden beneath the rock ..."

Still she hesitated until he gave an impatient nod.

"It's missing."

"Missing..."

"I – I suppose the lady did not put it back. Though I told her to and said I would need it ..."

The Phantom turned his back to the girl in curious speculation. A skeleton key, like so many of its kind, it could open any door and was not the sole one in his possession. Other keys of the same ilk existed within the opera house, so its absence brought no real fear of a mob entering his home, his certainty amplified with his addition of the secret brick entrance that doubled as a wall.

But why should the de Chagny noblewoman have kept such a key?

.

**xXx**

.

Christine fingered the iron key on the ribbon of black velvet. Her ever-shifting emotions had spun in a whirlwind since the night of his treachery. They twisted from shock and hurt into fear and worry then into desperation and anger – around and around – until finally settling into the a composed plane of icy acceptance.

Five nights ago, she had resealed the Phantom's envelope with heated candle wax, patching the original seal and hoping Madame would be none the wiser to Christine's tampering, then replaced his missive within the pillar's secret door, this time taking the journey alone to Box Five.

His instructions for the rest of the cast she had skimmed over, but his words about Christine had been scorched into her mind.

… _With regard to Miss Grendahl, it has come to my recent attention that she is in need of further guidance. I shall see to the arrangements and inform you of your instructions ..._

That had been the extent of his mention of her – and not even by her true name! Cold, remote, very much the Phantom, his impersonal and inappropriate form of address a snub to the acknowledgement of her as his wife. But his choice of words had told Christine what she wished to know: He _had_ been in the dark garden and heard her words to him. She had not imagined it. She had finally reached him and said what needed to be said since their last confrontation when she unmasked him, not all of it, but she had expressed her fervent desire to speak with him, in the hope of demanding answers and explaining old mistakes – and still he chose to preserve this gulf of silence between them. The years had hardened and changed him. He no longer cared or wanted her. Their last night together, that wondrous night when he taught her the true meaning of passion, had clearly meant nothing to him other than a brief distraction, like those he experienced with his sordid following of ballerina whores –

And she would be _damned_ if she would follow in their footsteps and plead with him to take her back!

It had taken Christine eight days to reach this new plateau of chill indifference, a match to his own. Her heart still felt freshly torn, and in the nights she wept bitter tears of silence on her pillow for all she had lost – she would never cease to love him, forever destined to be his and now doubly so, since he was both her lost love, Erik, and her love so newly discovered in the Phantom – but she was no longer willing to play his wretched games that ripped into her soul and made a mockery of the heart. Perhaps he even attained a cruel sort of enjoyment in witnessing her distress from afar, a windfall in his plot of vengeance for whatever pathetic reason he chose to harbor ill will against her –

She was determined no longer to give him the satisfaction.

With that grim resolve, she slammed the key into the shallow top drawer of her dressing table and rose from her bench, in lieu of dining with Meg and other members of the cast.

Many of the thespians still regarded her with suspicious uncertainty. And no wonder – after all, she _was_ the infamous Opera Ghost's protégé. Others of the cast were kinder, though she wouldn't call them friendly. In Carlotta's absence, Christine's lead, Ubaldo Piangi, often spoke to her, trying to make her feel welcome, the only member of the company besides Meg to do so. It felt odd to be in the Italian tenor's vicinity, and to her chagrin, Christine still responded with edginess to any of his sudden movements to approach her on or off stage, though as corpulent as he was, there were not many incidents of that. But when she did react with unwanted nerves, her equilibrium faltered, making her appear graceless and often eliciting muffled giggles from one or more of the dancers.

Her cousin had not only stolen her trust in most men with his vile act, he had stolen her grace, but she was determined to surmount this newest obstacle before the opera opened to the public.

"Cara mia…" Piangi's accented voice reached her once she stepped outside her door. "Buona sera. Might I escort you to dinner?"

She blinked in surprise at his warm greeting, noting he stood in the nearby corridor. He carefully approached, as if a witness to her earlier thoughts, and she felt bad for her agitated behavior with him on stage, realizing he probably thought himself solely to blame. His hair had been slicked back with water, his dark eyes sparkling and his plump cheeks ruddy above his thick, cropped beard. Had he been waiting for her to emerge from her dressing room?

Confused by his attention, she decided he must have only been walking past and saw no reason to refuse his company. She did not find the little man a threat, actually feeling a bit sorry for him that with his short stature, he had needed to stand on the stair above her to deposit the required kiss on her lips after their aria. The choreographer for the male dancers, Madame's counterpart, had worked with them both to try to make it look natural, but Piangi was the obvious brunt of a joke, judging from several stagehands who snickered. The passionate duet had left Christine's blood tepid, neither hot nor cold and certainly nothing like the blaze of heat she experienced with the Phantom for her partner. She had been relieved that the moment she long dreaded of accepting her lead's kiss in the play had been so inconsequential and brief she scarcely noticed it. Indeed, she found the whole thing rather peculiar that Señor Piangi had been cast in the role as a romantic Don Juan. The whole spectacle came across as something of a parody, surely nothing like the Phantom intended for his tragic opera. And she recalled Meg telling her that in his notes to the managers, he initially ordered that they cast another singer for the role, recalled also the curt instructions in his recent missive that she found and read, his advice with regard to Piangi- "…the aging tenor must cease to overindulge, so as to fit into his costume on opening night."

To her knowledge, there was only one man who could fill the part of Don Juan to perfection, firing her blood in passion…

Aggrieved that her thoughts always led back to him, she offered a bright smile to her escort.

"How is La Carlotta faring? I understand that you went to visit her today."

His eyes dimmed slightly. "Her ankle is recovering. Her tongue is as sharp as ever."

Christine's smile grew curious. What an odd thing to say about his beloved; Meg had informed her of his close association with the diva that had gone on for five years.

"She hopes to return soon and take over in the role of Aminta."

Christine nodded vaguely, well aware of the erstwhile diva's intentions. For the woman's sake, in remembering the Phantom's threats, she hoped that she stayed far away from the theater.

"It is my hope that she does not return," Piangi surprised her by saying. "You have the voice of a goddess and the beauty of one. You alone should play the part, Signorina."

She stopped walking and looked at him. "But surely, you don't mean that."

"Carlotta is a woman of advanced years. She should not play a gypsy girl in the bloom of her youth."

Surprised that he should state the fact, no matter how true, she refrained from speaking her mind that he did not fit the role he'd been given either.

"Señor Piangi…"

"Please, call me Ubaldo."

Uncomfortable with the prospect, Christine shook her head. "No, I cannot do that. And you should not be speaking to me like this."

His expression broke into one of sincere regret. "I have offended you?"

"No, no. It's nothing like that. I just … I don't feel comfortable having this discussion."

He shook his head in admiration. "In my twenty-six years on the stage, you are unlike anyone of the theater I have met," he speculated in wonder.

"I'm not sure that's a good thing," she said with a wry laugh, having begun to doubt she would ever fit in.

"I meant it only as a compliment, Signorina."

"Miss Grendahl!"

At the sudden sound of Madame Giry's clipped voice, Christine turned.

"A word, if you please."

Christine warily approached, and Madame took her arm, leading her back to the dressing room.

"Go on, Señor," Madame ordered, "this will take some time."

"Have I done something wrong?" Christine asked, glancing back at Piangi before entering the chamber. He looked disappointed but turned and walked away.

"You won't be dining with the others tonight."

Christine's brows drew together in a frown. "Oh, but ..."

Still unsmiling, Madame handed Christine an envelope.

"This is for you."

Christine's breath stalled in her lungs, her eyes going wide as she stared at the extended parchment. She felt dizzy as the world went out of focus, though somehow she remained standing. Rimmed with a thin black border, the missive bore her stage name in flowing bold black script, imperious but beautiful all at once –

_Miss Grendahl_

He had sent her one of his infamous notes.

"A word of caution," Madame continued. "Señor Piangi is harmless, but his companion is not. I strongly advise you not to keep company with him when absent from the stage."

Christine had no interest in the gregarious little man beyond his role as her lead and certainly did not fear the waspish La Carlotta, but she could think of no answer to give.

Her mind seemed vacant of anything but the note she held in her hand, which now trembled.

Madame slipped silently from the room. Christine stood paralyzed, unaware of her exit.

After a long moment she slowly moved to her dressing table, as if walking through water, and sank to its cushioned seat. She fingered her fraudulent name on the envelope then turned the parchment over and stared at the small skull of red wax that leered at her, before slipping her finger beneath and breaking the seal, opening his missive. Her heart pounded so hard she could feel its reverberations inside her head, and she inhaled a deep steadying breath then read the single line of script:

_Your presence is required in the chapel at nine o'clock tonight. Do not be late._

_~ O.G._

_._

Christine let out a harsh, brittle laugh that came as more of a sob.

So, _the Phantom_ had summoned her. The great Opera Ghost had made his demands. To meet in _the_ _chapel_, of all places ...

What game was he playing this time?

She should refrain from blind obedience to appear at his command and not award him the satisfaction. She should leave her room this second and join the others in the dining hall. She should … she should…

Her eyes fell shut, her heart drumming in her ears.

Even as the rebellious thought crossed her mind to ignore his brusque note, aided by the many reasons it would be wise to do so, deep in her heart Christine counted the minutes until she would see him again.

.

**xXx**


	55. Chapter 55

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews – you guys. lol You make me chuckle and shake my head (with a very wicked grin)…And now – how about a nice long chapter.…**

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**LV**

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Five minutes before the hour she was summoned to appear, Christine hurried through empty passageways of the forgotten east wing, the echo of her footsteps hollow on the flagstones.

Meg had led her through this area on a second nocturnal tour three nights ago – perhaps a foolish desire for Christine to ask to see these abandoned corridors of infamy, but her curiosity had been too great. According to Meg these rooms were rarely used anymore, except for storage. Despite its lavish décor, the theater had known financial difficulty, and the previous managers installed the newest mode of gaslighting exclusively in the foyer and theater for their guests, leaving the rest of the opera house in the dark ages of torchlight and candles. It made sense that the Phantom would choose to lurk here, the eerie halls abandoned and unlit. Even the rough walls of pale rock glowed like something from a ghostly tale.

Holding a torch to light the way, she came to an arched door, Meg having told Christine it led to the chapel. With her hand at the latch, Christine drummed up courage to face whatever new challenge he would put to her.

She did not fear him. Even in his fits of rage, he had never physically harmed her. That was not the type of hurt she dreaded. Only Erik could rend her heart and wound her soul, and she resolved to remain composed and not again become prey to his as yet unexplained thirst for vengeance.

Opening the door, she noticed a set of stone steps twisting downward and took them. She was almost to the bottom when she heard the heavy door close above her.

Startled, she whipped around, the flame of the torch fluttering from her swift action.

"Erik? Is that you?"

When no answer came, she nervously retraced the spiral of steps to the door. No one had entered, but the door would no longer budge. Had he locked her inside? Her heart hammering within her breast, wary of what state of mind she would find him in, she had no choice but to resume her descent.

The gentle glow of firelight shimmered on the wall as she took the final curve and stair. She gasped to come upon a chamber with candles lit all around. Oil paintings of angels decorated the walls, their muted earthen colors of moss-green, antique gold, and faded blue giving a peaceful ambiance to the room, as did one window of stained glass crafted in the image of an angel. Yet at the moment she felt anything but relaxed.

It had been eight nights since she'd last seen him underground, eight nights that might as well have been a small eternity.

"Erik," she spoke to the empty room, then cleared her throat to push away the unease. "Are you there…? It was you, wasn't it? You locked me in this chamber! Are you trying to frighten me...?"

She turned in a circle and spied an alcove. Certain that must be where he was hiding she approached the shadowed darkness. Thrusting her torch inside, she found the space empty. Just when she thought she'd been the brunt of a cruel joke, a gentle wind blew, causing the candles nearest her to flicker.

She stared at them in confusion, her heart skipping a beat to remember a similar occurrence in her dressing room.

"_Christine…"_

The quiet timbre of his voice coming so suddenly from behind, a dark velvet lure to her senses, caused her bones to melt and damp heat to trickle between her thighs. Just the mere sound of _his_ _voice_ robbed her of the ability to think, to breathe, leaving her in want, and her pulse raced at the thought of what the coveted sight of him might do to her. She could not let him see her in this state, could not let him witness the control he had over her mind. Pressing her hand to the wall, she sought the strength to resist him, and turned –

He was not there.

She stared in confusion. "Where are you?"

Seeing a nearby brace on the wall, she slipped her torch inside it.

"I am here," he said at last. "Where is not important. You seek further guidance. I will help you…"

Christine let out a faint disbelieving laugh as the quiet echo of his voice filtered through the room.

"You mean to _hide_ from me then?"

He did not respond and she stamped her foot in exasperation, clenching her hands at her sides. "Damn it, Erik, answer me this minute and stop this ghostly pretense! I have never known you to be a coward…" The gauntlet of challenge thrown, she winced suddenly to realize where she stood. Her tongue had grown as crude as a stagehand's. In this place of tranquil worship, surely it must be a sin to speak with anything other than reverence.

"Madame…" His tone came darker, but no less quiet. "You would do well to remember that I am your teacher, and you are my student. I have brought you to this forgotten chamber of worship, to instruct you further in what you must know for the opera."

At least he addressed her with the proper form of address so had not completely forgotten their wedded state, though his note had given her cause to wonder.

"Why here? You have never liked to step foot inside sacred buildings."

"There is less chance of being overheard in this chamber. This wing is seldom visited, especially in the late evening."

_Except by the occasional ballerina aspiring for a midnight tumble with the Phantom,_ she bitterly added though refrained from airing the words.

Vexed with this new twist on his game of lurking cat to trapped canary, she stepped forward in appeal, though she had no idea where he stood. His voice came in waves crashing then receding all around her, at one moment undulating rich with sound in front, in the next coming soft as a whisper from behind. Another of his magic tricks, no doubt.

"Erik, we must talk."

"While we engage in these lessons, you will address me as your teacher."

She blew out a breath at his rigid, implacable tone. "Very well then, _Maestro_, there are many things I wish to know and want to say –"

"With five days until your debut we must concentrate exclusively on the opera." His tone brooked no refusal. "There is time for nothing else."

She blinked. "But surely, we cannot just pretend these last months away, as if nothing ever happened, _when we both know it did!_"

She heard the trace of his audible sigh, not angry but strangely sad, and turned in that direction.

"The past is no more than shadows of a forgotten time. Shadows belong to the darkness and should remain there."

Her mouth parted in disbelief at his reply. "But the light of revelation can sweep the shadows away, as if they never existed. Not everything should remain in darkness. Some things _need_ to be said –"

"There is nothing you have to tell me that I don't already know."

She doubted that but didn't argue the point, instead expressing her own.

"There are many things _**I**_ wish to know –"

"I had understood that you wished for guidance. Was I incorrect in that assumption?"

"You _**know**_ you were not. You _**heard**_ what I said in the garden that night. _Otherwise you wouldn't be here now._"

Her words held a ring of victory, even as she lowered her head in defeat. She knew him well enough in his current guise as the Phantom to realize that he would not yield and might abandon her if she persisted.

"Then let me be what you need to excel. Let me teach you and be what destiny has ordained for us in this moment of time: let me be your Angel of Music."

His voice, his words were of the softest silk, wrapping around her soul. This was not a command disguised as a choice, so prevalent with him. This was a request. He was not the boy she remembered, now a stranger, this Phantom. But at times like now, rare and fleeting, she saw glimpses of Erik's gentle spirit. And yet it did not matter what mask he chose to wear. God help her, she had grown to love the dangerous man of dark mystery who dwelled in shadows too.

If she was patient, perhaps once the night of her opening was behind her, he might allow time for full disclosure. For now, it was enough that he had answered her plea and come to her, even if he chose to remain hidden. She still felt insecure of her ability to sing in a professional capacity, still so much in need of his guidance.

"You have always been my Angel…" she whispered, her eyes lighting on the tall painted one set back in a shallow niche, well lit by candelabra descending in a stair-step pattern on each side. A railing of stone stood at her waist, guarding the small enclosure and setting it off from the rest of the room. She walked to the middle of the stone ledge, where an opening was, large enough for only one person to walk through. "…I would have it no other way."

From behind the chapel wall, the Phantom inhaled an unsteady breath as she seemed to look right at him. Shaken, he pushed briefly away from the two eyeholes that a previous voyeur had bored into the painted wall of an angel's sash to spy on those inside. The passages behind walls of this old wing were narrow and led to the part of the opera house still in use and a secret door down to his lair. But no hidden entrance led into the chapel, the wall of stone between them a true barrier to Christine and the main reason the Phantom had chosen this place to resume their lessons.

She was a vision of enchantment in the candlelight, her glossy curls wild and rippling down her back, her haunted eyes dark and shining. Her dress was of blue velvet, the same that she had worn on their last night together, and he could imagine the feel of each sensual curve beneath his hand that had skimmed the soft material during their passionate aria, could imagine later, the softer flesh beneath with her lying beneath him in her bed…

He closed his eyes to the memory, to the very sight of her, his body trembling with the need to gather Christine in his arms and kiss her senseless. To beg her forgiveness and plead for her love, to implore that she might at least _try_ to love him as a man and forget that he was no more than a monster…

He bared his teeth against such futile hopes. God, he was pathetic. Each time in this infernal week that he struggled to harden his feelings against her, a recent memory of her sweetness pierced through the darkness he desperately tried to build, a chink of her light revealing a fraction of his shadowed heart. There, in the deepest chamber of that foul organ, he struggled to keep his feelings for her buried deep. He had thus far failed and now felt helpless to resist her beauty, even if only through watching her…

Perhaps she truly had changed; perhaps she was no longer the thoughtless girl who in her ignorance once betrayed him to die. There were moments, warm and evanescent, in the last eleven weeks that could lead him to believe it. But he feared to become vulnerable to her charms, only to have her deny and betray him a second time. The anguish would be ten times worse now that he had gained such intimate knowledge of his beautiful songbird.

Mesmerized by the sight of her lips gently parting, he gasped when her tongue slid along their fullness to moisten them in a nervous gesture. Desire, hot and potent, flared to life inside him.

"Maestro…?"

"We must begin."

She looked to her left where he had thrown his voice, taking a few uncertain steps in that direction.

The reprieve he purposely created, to gaze upon her profile instead of her face, proved minimal. No matter which way she turned, she was an enticement to his senses.

"Your scales, if you please," he instructed tersely...

For the opera must go on.

Christine gave a little start as he struck a guiding note on his violin, the melancholy sound drifting in the air all around her, but obediently she began to sing.

**xXx**

Raoul bent over a table in the private anteroom of the hotel and ran his index finger along a wavy line of the faded map Professor Arnaud had brought with him.

"It is rather crude, my apologies," the elderly bewhiskered gentleman said, "but to my knowledge, it is the earliest map existing of Paris."

"No apologies are necessary. These…" Raoul was intent on the faded scribblings as he pointed to three circles, "are the only known entrances to the tunnels? How far do the tunnels reach?"

"In my sole expedition beneath the earth, I did not get far before the rock broke above my head and caused a small avalanche, a force of nature." He patted the side of his game leg with his cane. "With this, I am no longer able to search the caverns, but I have heard stories, rooted in the ancient legends of the Gauls, that they extend east and west to the boundaries of Paris, perhaps beyond that. An entire underground city of natural rock chambers, stairsteps and passageways on many levels, with bottomless pits, springs, even an underground lake…"

At the mention of water, Raoul bitterly recalled the trap into which he'd fallen weeks ago and wondered if the professor had also been a victim of the Phantom and not a force of nature as he assumed. Raoul had entered the narrow passageway beyond the theater walls, unexpectedly found two years ago and shown to him by stagehands, who had warned that he shouldn't step foot past the barricaded enclosure. Three of their number were once badly injured, another losing his life in the traps. His fear for Christine and eagerness to capture the Phantom led Raoul to tear away the boards long nailed to the secret entrance.

Armed with warnings of what to avoid, he'd found a crawlspace that led down to the caverns but had gone no more than a hundred yards before becoming victim to a trap. Fighting for his last breath, he had clung to the moss-covered grate pressing down on him. In the moment before the water could close over his head it suddenly rushed out through a gap that magically appeared in the wall. He escaped, finding his way back to the theater, but when he returned to the crawlspace to attempt a second invasion, he found it blocked with a boulder impossible for one man to move. And no one else would dare enter the feared Opera Ghost's hidden passageways to help roll it away.

The blueprints of the theater had shown a warren of corridors beyond the walls. For what purpose they were included in the design of the building he'd been unable to discover, but he had not yet learned of another entrance leading to the caverns.

A distant clock chiming the hour broke him from frustrated musings and led him to realize how late it was. He sighed and rolled up the map. "May I keep this temporarily?"

"Oui, Monsieur Vicomte, of course. I am only too happy to help."

Both men exited the chamber. The concierge stood near, his dark eyes intent on Raoul. The professor left for the hotel exit, and the concierge approached. Raoul warily eyed the abhorrent little man, his first encounter with the unfortunate Giselle and this scoundrel trying to peddle off the young maid as merchandise returning to his thoughts.

"Monsieur le Vicomte," the concierge greeted, "I trust your stay with us has been pleasant and everything is to your satisfaction?"

"I have no complaints." He made to walk past, but the concierge hurried up beside him. Raoul turned in surprise.

"Pardon, Monsieur, I could not help overhearing – you are searching for the masked man of the Opera House known as The Phantom?"

"You know of him?"

"The fiend stole my niece two years ago. From under this very roof."

Raoul's interest sharpened. "The _Phantom_ abducted your niece?"

"Oui, and I have not heard from my Jolene since that night. I fear what he has done to her."

Raoul considered the alarming words, the behavior consistent with the masked menace, since Raoul still believed that Christine had been abducted and was protecting the Phantom, though for what absurd purpose he could not begin to guess.

"I have heard that you seek volunteers to help in your capture," the concierge continued. "I wish to help, and there are others under my supervision who would do the same. I wish to see the Phantom hanged as much as you." A violent flash of anger darkened his eyes.

Although aid was appreciated and needed, Raoul did not trust this man and withheld an immediate answer.

Light feminine laughter, familiar to him, captured Raoul's attention. He looked toward the lobby in shock. The bright glow from the massive chandelier's many globes highlighted the woman who stood below animatedly talking to a well-dressed gentleman in black tails.

"Excuse me," he said distantly to the concierge, moving past him.

"Monsieur –"

"We will speak of this later."

His eyes never left the laughing woman. She wore a silver dress that gleamed with a soft luminescence, complementing her fair skin, and as she turned at the sound of his step, he noticed the gown had brightened her eyes to blue-gray.

"Raoul, there you are," Arabella greeted with an enthused smile, "I was beginning to think I would need to send the staff in search of you."

He flicked his eyes to the man behind her then again looked at his cousin. "I did not wish to trouble you. I had important business. I assumed you would be waiting upstairs."

"If I'd done that, I might starve," she said with a careless little laugh.

"And you are, sir?" Raoul asked since Arabella had obviously forgotten about introductions and the stranger seemed unable to look away from his cousin.

"Sir Reginald Cavendish, the Marquis of Newcastle. I'm an old friend of your father's. Upon my arrival this evening, I met your charming cousin and learned you are both staying here, as am I."

"Isn't that wonderful, Raoul?" Arabella said happily. "I have been trying to convince Lord Cavendish that he must join us for supper. His recent travels took him through Bordeaux, where your parents are staying. He was also a guest at Westerly Manor and was just telling me of a recent hunt in which the wily fox misled its pursuers. Most amusing..."

"Ah." Raoul summoned up a congenial smile. "Of course you are welcome to join us. I should like to hear more of this escapade."

At the trace of falseness in is tone, Arabella shot him a queer look but immediately returned her smiling attention to their new guest. "How long do you plan to stay in Paris, Lord Cavendish?"

The three walked to the dining area. Raoul could not explain the vice that clenched his midsection since he'd come upon the pair so easily conversing or why he disliked the jovial older gentleman on sight.

"I suppose the answer to that, dear lady, is dependent on if I find anything of merit to hold my interest to keep me here."

"Have you been to the opera? My cousin is a patron at the Opera House, and a new one opens this weekend. A good friend sings the lead, and I must tell you, she has a voice befitting an angel. Most impressive."

"You are acquainted with an opera singer?" Rather than sound horrified by the prospect, he appeared fascinated. "I confess, I'm tone deaf so have not attended many an opera."

"Nonetheless, I feel it might be worthy of your consideration. It is a most unusual opera, this Don Juan Triumphant. Many call it The Phantom's Opera – the composer is a reclusive musical genius. The story alone would hold your interest …"

At Arabella's glowing recommendation, Raoul frowned and turned his thoughts back to the looming opera that was fast becoming a bane to his existence. He must try and speak with Christine again after her rehearsals tomorrow.

If only she would listen.

**xXx**

Christine nervously looked toward the door and lowered her voice. "You shouldn't be here. This is the third night this week. People will talk..."

Raoul studied her in surprised confusion. "Lotte, you lived in my home for two years, despite all foolish town gossip. I hardly think a few short visits to your dressing room can compare."

His blank expression led her to believe he spoke without rancor. His outlook of his visits were that they were harmless enough, thus everyone should share the same opinion. She inwardly groaned from frustration. Was his heart truly so pure not to see how easily his visits could be misconstrued? Or had hers grown so blackened that she alone saw the contradiction? Once, in England, she gave no heed to guarding one's reputation, thinking it trite and silly if it interfered with her desire for adventure. Many were the nights she had innocently fallen asleep beside Erik in the loft or they roamed the moonlit moors, without oddities like chaperones to hinder them. To some degree, she still did not care – thespians and singers were all assumed to have tawdry reputations – but she _did_ care **_who_** might hear about the rumors of scandals. Of course, she couldn't tell Raoul that.

She forced herself not to look at the tall mirror on the opposite wall, doubtful her dark Angel was even there, if he had been before, and the realization made the rhythm of her pulse increase.

She really must put an end to this…

"No one here knows our history or knows me. This is also my bedchamber, and I have no wish to become the brunt of further gossip."

He frowned. "Has someone spoken ill of you? You have only to tell me their name and I'll see to the matter."

She twisted on the stool to face him. "No, Raoul, that is something you must _not_ do. If I'm ever to fit in with the rest of the cast, I cannot have you always fussing over me." Seeing him wince and knowing she had wounded his feelings, she gently touched his sleeve. "Please understand. It's not that I'm ungrateful for your concern, but I'm a grown woman."

A _married_ woman, though of course she couldn't tell him that either. And it infuriated her that her name had been linked with the Vicomte's in the latest outrageous tittle-tattle, a number of the chorus assuming them to be secret lovers.

"I am trying to understand, Christine. I don't wish to upset you, only to protect you. I still don't think you're safe here…"

"Raoul, please. Not this again. I told you, I'm fine."

"At least change your mind and have supper with me."

Christine barely refrained from screaming. Her nerves were so taut a throbbing little ache had started behind her eyes. They must have been having this argument for the better part of a quarter hour. She couldn't recall him ever being so dogged, or perhaps she had forgotten his tenacity. At The Grange, during her convalescence while in her apathetic state, she had allowed both Raoul and Arabella to think and choose for her, like a little child incapable of the ability to reason. But she had grown strong of mind since those dark days and even stronger these past months, again wishing to make her own decisions.

"I cannot go with you," she said once more. "The opening is tomorrow night – _tomorrow night_, Raoul. I must meet with my teacher for practice."

"Surely he has no wish to see you starve! This is the third night you've refused to go to supper." He eyed her slender form doubtfully. "I sincerely hope you're looking after your needs since you refuse to let anyone else see to them."

"Of course. But I'm not supposed to eat before a performance."

"This is only a practice session. I fail to understand why you must be so strict when you dine. Yet I can wait if I must…"

"No, Raoul. _No_." She looked full into his eyes. "My teacher _is_ strict. He strives for excellence and expects the same, and I have no wish to disappoint him." She took a relaxing breath. "Besides, I prefer late meals so I can enjoy them and rest afterward. My training goes on for hours and is very exacting."

"I should like to meet him, this mysterious teacher of yours."

This wasn't the first time he made the request, but thankfully they'd been interrupted before she could answer. Now he looked at her, his expression expectant.

"I'm sorry, he wouldn't agree to a meeting. He's a genius when it comes to the arts but prefers his solitude. He doesn't mix well with crowds."

"I am only one man."

"Raoul, _please!_" Christine set her hairbrush down on the dressing table with a little more force than necessary. "I cannot push him to meet you if he does not wish it. Now, I shall see you tomorrow night at the opening."

At her abrupt dismissal, he sighed. "Calm yourself, Christine. I didn't mean to upset you." He rose from the chair he'd placed near her. "I'll go. But I _will_ see you at the celebration gala after the performance. I am quite confident you'll outshine them all."

She smiled in gratitude, feeling badly for her brusqueness when he was only exhibiting his concern.

x

The moment the door closed behind him, Christine donned her cloak and raced to the chapel, darting in and out of shadows to remain unseen on her flight to the abandoned corridors. The way was dimly lit for her, as her teacher had done in the past five nights of their practices.

She closed the heavy door behind her and hurried down the spiral stairs, barely making it into the small chamber before Hades' voice thundered from the darkness in which he hid.

"_**You're late!"**_

She flinched at his words that shook the air like dual snaps from a whip's lash.

After the awkward tension on the night he first brought her here, they had passed additional practices successfully, the Phantom a teacher devoted to his calling and Christine eager to learn the wealth of his expertise. Because of his initial order for silence, nothing was said of their life together outside this small chamber with its faded, forgotten angels, as if the past three months, even the last four years never existed – as if their _entire association_ never existed. It was as if they were two strangers brought together for one purpose alone, the success of the opera, both of them playing a different masquerade of genteel illusion and formal pretense. But one no less painful.

It was easiest to forget while she sang, and she had devoted herself to that cause, pouring herself into becoming Aminta. The dark lulls that came between – periods of heavy silence where forbidden words were muffled before they had a chance to form – were the most difficult to bear. He scolded and instructed her, but often, too often, she recalled that same mesmeric voice whispering seductive enticements in her ear, his lips warm against her skin…

With so many chaotic feelings boiling beneath a veneer of emotional unconcern, Christine felt as if the shell holding her together must soon crack and she would splinter into jagged fragments like a broken china doll.

The chamber was considerably cold, his tone dark, the strain that filled the atmosphere weightier than at any time during the past five lessons.

Only one more night … she could survive this one more night.

"Have you nothing to say?" he insisted, his tone soft and dangerous.

"I wasn't aware that you required an explanation. I had understood that you preferred me to keep my silence on anything not related to the opera."

"Your punctuality **_is_** related to the opera."

She sighed at his brisk rejoinder. "I apologize for my tardiness, Maestro. It won't happen again." As she spoke, Christine wondered as to the authenticity of her declaration and if their lessons really would now come to a close after her debut. She could not bear them to end and could not bear them to continue…not like this.

From behind the wall, the Phantom suspiciously narrowed his eyes, noting the spirited quirk of her chin. Her curls were in wild disarray and she stood breathless, her bosom rising and falling as if she'd run the distance. A becoming flush of rose tinted her dewy features, and he wondered if the insufferable boy put it there.

He clenched his hands pressed to the wall and impatiently waited until she could again breathe.

"We have wasted much time," he snapped. "Proceed with your scales."

Refusing to let his hostile mood affect her, Christine bit back tears and lifted her voice, following his direction. They moved from scales into simple exercises then into her solo of the third act. Some nights he played his violin, other nights she sang without accompaniment. Tonight her voice was all that wavered through the chamber, waver being the operative word.

**"STOP!"**

Fully expecting his censure, she closed her eyes and waited for him to continue.

"That was written to be a cadenza to capture and delight the audience, comparable to a fluid ascent of chiming bells," his fierce whisper surrounded her in the dark cloud of his displeasure. "You have made it into the mournful call of a warbling pigeon! Have you forgotten all that I taught you? Your stance is reprehensible. _Stand taller!_ The abdomen is a necessary tool to those singers who take their profession seriously. _Use it to breathe..._ Is this nothing more than a game to you, Madame? I thought your greatest desire was to sing. Must I remind you that the opera opens tomorrow night?"

"You have no need to remind me – but you are mistaken, _Phantom_. I'm not the one who plays on a carousel of never-ending games!"

"_Are you so sure of that?"_

Breathing hard, he clenched his gloved hands he held pressed to the wall, never looking away from the opening or Christine, who whirled to face him, her expression wounded and angry. In his mind's eye, he could see that idiot's hand resting at the curve of her shoulder in reassurance as he sat so near Christine at her dressing table. Nor had she made an effort to move away. He could have gladly strangled the boy.

Christine bowed her head and rubbed her temples.

"Shall I start over then?" she whispered.

"What you should do is desist in defying me," he said, just as hoarsely, cursing his own pain. This was a mistake; yet he felt compelled to continue.

Her head shot up. "What do you mean – I have done _everything_ you asked."

"Not _**everything**_," he bit out, his anger rising on another wave. "You choose to entertain callers in your dressing room when you should be resting before your practices."

"Entertain?" Shortly she laughed, again massaging her temples. "Surely you jest."

"You keep company with the fool you were warned to avoid. I do not find that one bit amusing."

"You have put me in an impossible position," she said just as bitterly. "If I refuse to see the Vicomte he will become even more suspicious than he is and think you're to blame."

"I can take care of myself, Madame. But do you deny that it is _your desire_ to see the de Chagny spawn?"

She shook her head in disbelief. "You wish me to be completely without friends?"

"Friends," he spat in mockery as if the word were laced in poison. "Is that what you call it? How _touching_."

He span a whole new meaning into the word, and she winced.

"Yes – we are _**friends**_." She lifted her hands in appeal, her attention going to the angels on the walls. They looked down on her with silent disapproval. "Why do you still hate him so much -?"

"You have to ask?!" He laughed harshly.

"Yes, yes I do. Is it because he's the patron here? Can you not find some path of compromise between you? Why must you always be so unforgiving?"

"Forgive me if I find it _**distasteful**_ to surrender _**all of** **what is mine!**_"

Her heart gave an erratic thump at his sardonic words that seemed fraught with a deeper meaning, then fell as he continued –

"I rebuilt this opera house from the ruins it had been fast approaching. It was _**my**_ tireless efforts that saved it, the Don Juan is _**my opera**_ that I penned – yet that fool and those idiot managers take all the glory and make me out to be no more than a villain. As if I would wish to destroy three years' worth of hard work. I want this opera house to thrive more than they do!"

"The Vicomte doesn't know that – or anything about you really. And he doesn't deserve your everlasting wrath. He is no virtuoso, but he wants this opera house to succeed too. Can you not just end this war, once and for all?"

"I intend to do precisely that," he replied, his voice potent, beautiful and menacing, like a velvet-tipped arrow thrust through her heart. "**_Your precious Vicomte_** has done everything in his power to attempt to destroy me, to attempt to 'capture' me, and now he wishes to abolish my opera! But I will **_never_** allow it…"

"What in God's name are you talking about?" she insisted, turning in a circle to look at each of the four walls, wishing to know where he stood. "How would he even do that? _**Why**_ would he do that?"

"HE DESTROYED US!" he growled. "And yet you defend him!"

"NO – **YOU **DESTROYED US!" she cried. "And I still don't know why!"

She stood in angry desperation, tremors shaking her entire body.

His voice came deeper and hushed, rumbling through her soul.

"Do not push me beyond my limits, Madame. I have told you, if I'm to remain your teacher, the past is to be left alone."

A resentful laugh quivered from her lips twisting into a sob that felt wrung from her lungs.

"You cannot have it both ways, Erik. You cannot say we are never to speak of what happened between us and concentrate solely on the opera – then do the exact opposite and only when it pleases you. YOU brought it up! _**And now I wish to know why!**_"

"I speak only of the opera – and that insolent boy who interferes with it!"

"The hell you do." She scowled at his refusal to speak of the past, barely refraining from pounding the walls in her frustration. "The Vicomte is _**not**_ interfering – he supports me. He wishes for the opera's success –"

"You are _**a blind fool**_ if you think that. Was it not because of his _**damnable interference**_ tonight that you arrived late for practice? _Did he not continually try to persuade you to leave with him to go to supper?_"

"Why do you even ask – I'm certain _**you**_ know the answer! _**Have you not been lurking in the shadows to spy?**_"

Christine whimpered, the pain in her head now throbbing. She lifted her hands to press them to each side of her temples. The ground slightly wavered, and she reached out to the balustrade, clutching it for balance. "I cannot do this anymore…"

"What is the matter?"

Curtly she shook her head.

"Are you ill?"

She gave a harsh little laugh of hysteria, the thin shell beginning to crack.

"Do you _**honestly pretend ****to**** care?**_ Is this your latest game? Oh, but how foolish of me – of course you care! After all, I am _**the star**_ of your opera, which is **_all_** that matters to you! _**My voice**_. And for that reason alone, my welfare is of concern." She despised the hot, bitter tears that streamed down her cheeks and viciously swiped them away. "Do not trouble yourself, Maestro. This trivial ache in my head will soon pass, your Don Juan opera will go on as planned –and you shall have your dreadful diva front and center stage when the curtain opens tomorrow night. _**I shall not fail you!**_"

"Christine…"

The sudden gentleness of his voice saying her name was her undoing and threatened to unhinge her soul completely.

"_No, I can't,_" she whispered, not wishing to collapse in this cold, empty chamber before his ever-watchful eyes that had burned her with their scorn –

- whirling on her heel, she fled from the room.

"CHRISTINE…!"

The Phantom slammed his palms against the barricading wall.

"**CHRISTINE!**"

With a final desperate bellow of her name, once more he uselessly struck rock then bowed his head, feeling as if an invisible knife slashed through what was left of his darkened heart.

x

Christine ran through the vacant corridors as if her life depended on it. With tears obstructing her vision, she turned into the adjoining passage and slammed into something solid.

She gave a little cry of panic and pain as two strong hands gripped her arms, preventing her fall.

"Are you alright, mademoiselle?" One of the stagehands held her close, his smile oily and breath reeking of whiskey. "Can I be of assistance?"

Wide-eyed, reminded of that awful last day in England, she fearfully shrank away, breaking from his hold. Slamming her palms against his chest, she forced him back then darted around him, thankful he did not pursue. Ignoring his low chuckle, she continued her flight, not stopping until she whisked through the rose-colored double doors.

Turning the key in the lock, Christine pressed her back to the wood. Alone at last, she slid down its surface and squeezed her eyes shut, allowing the breathless sobs to escape.

She wept for the past she could not change and the present she did not understand, while dreading what horrors the future yet held in store. When she had no tears left, she leaned the back of her head that had not ceased pounding against the smooth surface of the door.

How would she ever get through this? How would she get through tomorrow night and singing _an entire opera, _having had only two months to prepare? _What_ _had she been thinking _to believe she could?

She lost track of time and startled when knuckles rapped hard against the wood, the vibrations felt. Wiping the moisture from her cheeks with the edge of her cloak, she struggled to rise and eased the door open, peering through the crack.

Madame Giry stood there. Christine opened the door in surprise. The woman curtly nodded and moved around her to place a tray on a nearby table. Turning, she met Christine's reddened, damp eyes, a softer expression coming to her own.

"Are you alright, my dear?"

Christine managed to nod.

"Dress rehearsal begins at noon. I must spend the morning with the dancers, so get what rest you need." She opened her mouth to say more, then seemed to change her mind, giving a little shake of her head, and swept out the door, closing it behind her.

Christine again locked herself inside before looking at the table, expecting to see a late meal, though Madame never had brought her supper before.

Three items sat on the silver tray.

Her eyes skimmed over the first – a silver goblet containing dark liquid. With widening eyes she focused on the last two objects. A rose of deep crimson, not fully opened, lay upon an envelope that was blank.

She stared at both for an eternity of unsteady heartbeats, her body paralyzed, before she finally sank to the chair beside the table. Lifting the flower, she noticed a thin ribbon of black satin tied around its thornless stem. Slowly she curled the soft ribbon around her fingertip with her thumb and brought the blossom to her nose, the sweet fragrance of the velvet petals a caress to her shattered senses. Swallowing hard, both eager and fearful of what she may find, Christine broke the simple seal of red wax on the envelope and unfolded the stiff parchment.

_Your voice is not all of what matters to me._

_Seek rest, and let my remedial potion work its magic._

_I am always_

_~Your Angel of Music_

.

She let out a little sob at his tender message, the intolerable strain of days leaving her in a rush.

Pressing his note to her breasts, she felt too weary and wracked with pain to think or wonder what it all meant. Without hesitation, she drank every drop of the warm, bitter liquid in the goblet engraved with his initials, O. G.., then curled upon the chaise longue and closed her eyes …

…with his rose she still clutched in her hand now held against her heart.

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: note: With these chapel meetings- it's as if the years in between were erased and they're again meeting since the night he left her, everything fresh. The same fears each had in England are still there, amplified over time. This chapel bit was just a mini-confrontation, a poker prodding the embers that causes a fire to suddenly flare up, but only temporarily. The huge one in the future is a raging bonfire that awaits the match, that perfect moment in plot…(I often write big events ahead of time.) But who knows what the next chapter will bring?…I will say, I don't think you'll want to miss it. ;-) (And yes, I'm working on Symphony too, but I'm on a roll with Come to Me right now, so please be patient for those waiting for the other...)  
**


	56. Chapter 56

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews! Yeah, things have been pretty dark and angsty…maybe it's time for a little spot of light? ;-) This chapter deserves the rating. As usual, it's only been looked at by me so forgive any flaws...And now…**

* * *

**LVI**

_In the haze of shadow that bordered the brilliance of light, an image of a woman appeared on the distant horizon. His heart painfully beat within his ribs to see soft lines merge into glorious detail and Christine's features appear. A diaphanous gown of angelic white blew against and around her nude form, its whisper of illuminated folds enunciating every glorious plane and shadow, her wild ringlets of dark curls also kissed by the gentle wind._

_She held out her slender arms, a beseeching siren of light, and he was struck dumb by the glow that seemed to emanate from her body. The gown disintegrated into particles of luminosity that suddenly fell away and left her form unveiled to his hungry gaze._

"_Come to me, Erik," she whispered, her smile an enticement, her eyes bright and sparkling with challenge. "Come…"_

_She was suddenly so close he could reach out and touch her, but his arms felt leaden. Unable to move, he could only look at delectable curves and imagine their softness. Her hands cradled the weight of her breasts and lifted them for his full scrutiny as she began to dance before him, as a harem girl would her master, her thumbs brushing the rosy peaks, her hips softly swaying in wanton suggestion, until he felt he might explode from the heat of his desire. She bent to him, her soft, cool lips ghosting over his, her hand reaching for and placing his palm over the swell of her breast. When she let go, his hand fell away like a dead weight – and he realized he was paralyzed, the heat she had stirred in him now searing his flesh in anguish._

_She laughed and sensuously danced away from him. "You are nothing but an ogre and a beast…" Her lips formed the words but the voice that came from her throat was a man's, coarse and foul. "I was wrong to think you could be more. You sicken me with your talk of curses and death. I wish you had never come to The Heights, I wish you would go away…"_

_He stared in horror as her face grew hard and evil, dark pillars of smoke invading where light had been. His shoulder burned with fire and he saw that a large patch of blood soaked his shirt. He could no longer move any part of his body, the pain immense when he tried. Her scornful image faded, until the features shifted into that of his attacker. A second time the man aimed the nozzle of the gun his way._

"_She doesn't want you. She never did."_

The explosion brought the Phantom wide awake in his bed. He lunged to a sitting position, his entire body soaked in sweat with the return of the vicious dream. Shaken, he extricated himself from the twisted sheet and drew his wrapper around himself, escaping his bedchamber…wishing only to escape the nightmare.

The nightmare that was his reality.

The reality he could never escape.

His heart freshly torn with old pain, his mind riddled with doubt, he approached his pipe organ, hoping _this time_ to drown out the past in his music. But again harsh memories cruelly dominated the clash of chords in their battle for his mind. Indifferent to inflicting self torture, already despising himself and no stranger to anguish, he slumped forward, grabbing the edge, and slammed his head on the wood. The blinding flash of pain seared his brow through his temples but did nothing to jar the recollection that twisted the blade of remembered betrayal through his soul, and he hurled himself from the bench, tearing his hands through his hair.

Four years ago, the vicious words that his attacker had spewed in between shots fired into his flesh had been _Christine's exact words_ – many of them Erik had overheard from her own lips to Berta. Clearly she also had shared those words with her Vicomte. _Those words his attacker could not have known otherwise._

This was his reality. This he could not change.

His body shuddering with sobs he struggled to suppress, he felt his legs tremble and dropped to the cold stones. Weak with despair, he pressed his head against the bench. The soft mask he wore for slumber had adhered to his face and he realized it was soaked with his sweat and his tears.

She was right to call him a coward. He was afraid to be with her again, afraid to trust her. He wanted her more than music, more than even his opera – _God, he ached for her_ – but he feared she would truly destroy him this time. Betrayal, he had learned, was a lethal poison that warped the soul into madness and drove its victim to horrendous acts. He feared what a second dose might do to him.

He did not believe that she had plotted with the Vicomte's servant to end his pathetic life. Even in the depths of his torn heart that he had firmly sutured with hatred he did not believe she was so cruel as to wish him dead, only to have wanted him gone. But it was her disgust for Erik that she shared with the Vicomte that had spurred his servant to action, and for more reasons than one….He _did_ suspect that the Vicomte had been involved in the plan to see him dead. Royals and Nobles often dispatched their servants to execute foul deeds such as murder. He himself had become a slave to the Shah's will, until the one horrifying incident that made The Phantom, the Shah's Angel of Death, see himself for the irredeemable monster he truly was.

But nothing _about her_ continued to make sense. Her words to him these past two weeks – in the garden, in the chapel – made no sense. She wanted him gone. She wanted him there. She kept her distance. She chased after him. She ran away. She begged him to come back. But _who_ did she see? Who did she want? The masquerade or the reality?

And why should _she_ accuse _him_ of destroying what they had, when she had done so much worse? He had brought her back into the light, into the life she craved. She had consigned him to a living hell that by his consequent actions he now deserved.

While she had been trapped in his underworld of darkness he made her suffer many times over for every secret word previously confessed, the desire for vengeance aided by the poison of old betrayal taking over his soul. God - _how he had made his Little Angel suffer!_

And this past week of chapel lessons had brought new torments. He had pushed her hard, the need vital with her debut so close, the distance he forged brutal, his need to hold her, to touch her and make her his again increasing with each night's practice. At times he thought he caught glimpses of that same longing in her eyes, though she stood too far away to tell. But then, to see her fight to stay so strong hours ago, to realize the physical pain she had hidden and endured, fearing to tell him, and witness her break under the cruel strain he imposed – it was too much.

In that moment, he had known; no matter if she cut out his heart, he could never put her through such torments again. _He_ could not bear it. She bled too deep into his soul. She was his breath, his life, his utter existence. Even in his plan of vengeance, she was at the core of all he had done.

"Maestro…?"

Jolene's soft voice reached into his anguished thoughts, slowly pulling him back to the present. Unable to speak, barely to think of all but the past, he looked to where she stood in her bed gown, her long curls flowing to her waist.

"I heard you cry out," she said in concern. "Are you alright?"

His emotions in tatters, he did not have the strength or the will to answer.

Taking courage in his silence, Jolene walked to where he sat on the stones with his back against the organ. She stopped so close to him he had to tilt his head back to see. "Please, don't be sad any longer. You don't have to always be so alone…I can make you happy. I - I _want_ to make you happy…"

Emboldened when he did not order her to go, she nervously lowered the sleeves from her shoulders, letting the gown slide from her body. "I am no longer a child, and I want to be your woman," she whispered.

Remaining motionless, only his bleary eyes moved as they wearily took in her lush breasts and flat stomach, the roundness of her hips and the triangular shadow of curls, his gaze then lowering down the graceful slope of her legs. His eyes again lifted to hers as she slowly knelt before him. Tentatively she reached out and pressed trembling hands to his jaw.

This was all wrong. The dream should contain Christine, it had always been Christine naked and taunting him before this, and then he realized, it was no dream…

At the brush of the girl's soft lips against his, he clasped her shoulders, gently pushing her back. She stared at him in confusion as he took the sleeves of her voluminous gown in both hands, again drawing it up over her body.

In the past, he had retaliated with others in his grief and anger, because of Christine. He had sought fulfillment but only found the truth of what that meant in his Angel's arms. Jolene had grown into a voluptuous woman, with no childish angles left to her form, and like any other male creature with blood flowing through his veins, his body reacted to the sight of her. But his heart was not affected. And he'd had enough meaningless trysts in the night to last a lifetime. He wanted only his wife.

It was then that he knew, whether it be two weeks or two years, the battle he self-imposed had been lost before it started.

"Go back to bed, Jolene," he said quietly.

Tears wet her blue eyes. "Am I so ugly then? You liked me once before."

"You are quite beautiful. But I can never again be with you, as a man lies with a woman."

She shook her head. "But – I-I don't understand…"

"I am Erik."

At his quiet admission of the name he had shunned for four years, he watched as confusion left and the dawn of understanding entered her eyes.

"_You_…_?_" she choked. She blinked hard and fast. "_H-h-her_ Erik …?"

But Jolene did not wait to hear his reply. Awkwardly she clambered to her feet and slowly backed away. She covered her mouth with both hands as she read the clear affirmation in his eyes…and the quiet truth of what that meant.

He had brought Christine to Paris. He had brought her to his home. He had married her –

– and Christine had said, she had said…

Her body trembling with despair of her discovery, Jolene closely guarded the secret once told her and whirled away, escaping back to her bedchamber.

Erik closed his eyes while the little maid's sobs echoed distantly through the caverns.

**xXx**

Christine's eyes flew open and she sat up with a start.

She had experienced the dream again, only this time her masked lover had not remained. He had kissed her but never once touched her; instead he retreated, his image fading. And though she reached out for him, begging him to stay, he had disappeared back into the dark, misty shadows.

She scolded herself that it was only a dream, hardly important, not like the vivid reality that scorched into her mind: the night of the opera had arrived. Heaven help her and may all the angels be merciful…

Especially one Angel who was not truly an angel.

She shook away her unease and dressed with haste for the rehearsal, grateful that the terrible ache in her head had vanished so she did not have to bear that burden too. Reminded of the night's events, she noticed the rose, its petals sadly crushed from where she had unknowingly lain against it in slumber, and she placed the fragrant blossom beneath her pillow, as had become habit with precious mementos.

An hour later, she stood in the wings beside Meg, awaiting her cue. A man walked close from behind, brushing the back of her shoulder. Christine jumped at the contact, clutching the curtain that covered the back wall, her heart beating like a trapped bird.

"Pardon, mademoiselle." The stagehand from last night in the empty corridor grinned as he continued toward his post, but with the cold way he looked at her, she felt his apology without merit.

"Don't mind Buquet," Meg whispered. "He's like that with all the cast."

"That doesn't exactly reassure me. Why does anyone put up with him?"

"Oh, some have done more than that! I heard he once had a tawdry liaison going on with La Carlotta many years ago, when she was in the chorus. But she dropped him to become mistress to one of the managers working here at the time. That woman has always been a flagrant hussy. It was said that's how she got her rise to stardom, since it certainly couldn't have been her voice …"

The information came as no real surprise, especially having recently also learned from Meg that Carlotta was Piangi's mistress. Christine wondered if the brassy redhead truly had destroyed marriages and families as Erik once told her.

Meg cocked her head and smiled. "It's all part of working in the theater – their kind. You'll get used to it. Though with Maman nearby, usually Buquet and others like him aren't so bold and keep their distance…Are you nervous?"

"Why do you ask?"

"If you pull on that curtain any harder it may come tumbling down on our heads."

The dancer's smile turned sympathetic as Christine quickly let go of the curtain.

From the front of the stage, Madame Giry gave her daughter a frosty stare that would silence the most rebellious dancer of the chorus. Meg had kept her voice to a volume only Christine could hear, but apparently her mother discerned the hushed sound over the music coming from the orchestra pit.

Taking a breath for calm, Christine clenched her hands at her sides. She must order her thoughts, must seek control and forget about all but her role. She could do this…

However, once rehearsals were finished, and the hour of her probable doom arrived, Christine stood frozen in the wings. Every vessel in her body had tightened to the point of snapping, her stomach a series of knots tied to her heart that felt it might explode. It drummed in her breast like a death sentence, slowly picking up speed as her cue came nearer.

She looked through the chink in the curtains at the audience – hundreds of dim silhouettes, all of them waiting to hear the mysterious new diva who had come to them from nowhere …

And nowhere was where she felt she belonged.

"Christine," Meg whispered, nudging her, and she realized the fate of her future as a singer was about to descend.

She walked onstage, awkward, clasping damp hands, her first scene Aminta's entrance into the village. The chorus gaily sang of the daughter of the king of gypsies while weaving and dancing around her, at the same time Christine strode along, in slow choreographed movements – picking a flower, placing it in her hair – as if she did not hear them. Only recitatives were required of her after that, simple dialogue of song and certainly nothing too difficult, but she exhaled a breath of relief when she exited stage right as the portly Don Juan entered from the opposite wing.

The next scene went a trifle better, and she felt less like her wooden limbs had petrified to stone. She managed the first two acts relatively well, her tension further relieved when the outgoing Meg winked at her in encouragement, as the ballerina gracefully danced close in a series of spins. But all her hard won ease disintegrated in the third act, as the time came for her solo performance. This, the moment she was to shine, when recitatives of the cast ended, and her voice was all that would carry upon the stage – all that would be noticed within this vast theater with its hundreds upon hundreds of curious, ogling guests, some important nobles, all of them ready to pass judgment as they waited to hear the most closely guarded secret of Paris….

Christine suddenly forgot everything. Forgot how to breathe, forgot how to control her breathing, forgot how to sing…

Panicked, she stood paralyzed in the wash of glaring white light and stared into an ocean of thick darkness. From the orchestra box, Monsieur Reyer lifted his baton, and she heard the opening chords, felt her stomach tumble like she would be sick, right there, in front of the crème de la crème of Paris society. Weakly, her eyes fluttered shut as she wished for the floor to drop out from under her.

_Move through the mirror and capture the essence of the music, my Angel. Let its power not only fulfill you and control you, become the splendor of the notes - become the music. YOU are the music, Christine…_

Her eyes opened wide in shock as she heard his voice so clearly speak into her mind, as if her Angel of Music had sensed her trepidation and whispered encouragement in her ear. And with a little shiver of understanding of their last chapel meeting, when he whispered her name to soothe her, she knew he had. With his faith in her to guide her voice along with the knowledge that _he_ _was there_, the shackles of fear that held her bound at once fell away. Her heart became freed to the musical light, her soul soaring with the haunting notes of his composition, and looking to the rafters high above where she sensed he stood, she began to sing.

His music possessed her soul, and she gave it voice, shaping the notes into words of lament that soon blossomed into pleas of bittersweet hope. She was no longer Christine, she was Aminta, the gypsy princess of music, singing of the love once denied her and the hope to love again. She smiled wide, forgetting all else, and let the music free her.

Once the aria neared its close, the cadenza now upon her, she nurtured each note in her heart before letting it burst forth and take wing in a series of fluid, bell-like runs she controlled. She gave each note the breath of life as she saw fit. A little flourish of a birdlike trill here. A gentle surge of song there. Then she embraced the last high note with a crystalline clarity and power that made those watching gasp and stare until, bestowing it as a gift, she let it soar away, back to the heart of its master.

She could feel him watching from above though she could not see him. Could feel his pleasure and his pride…

And then the theater erupted into new music, the music of mass approval, as all around the building, along the floor of the auditorium and in every balcony, men and women rose quickly from their seats, like great undulating waves, and clapped long and loud, cheering for the new diva. Christine could barely take it all in as with a brilliant smile and misty eyes, she watched while numerous roses were tossed at her feet.

_We did it, Erik…our dream at last._

"Brava, Brava!"

Her attention went to Box Five where Raoul and Arabella leaned forward and she sent them a little nod and smile, barely pinching her filmy white evening gown and giving the slightest curtsy. Turning again to the audience, she made a deeper, more graceful curtsy, as they continued to shower her with flowers.

x

"Oh, Christine – you were magnifique!" Meg grabbed her arm before she could escape to her dressing room. "But where are you going? Everyone is talking about you and your angel's voice – you are a star!"

Christine smiled. All of the tension created these past three months building up to this night had blissfully vanished, leaving her oddly both lethargic and buoyant.

She loved the music, loved being a part of something so wondrous, with her dark Angel the counterpart of that dream. But she knew she must avoid the public as much as possible for her own safety. Madame Giry, who knew the true reason of Christine's arrival to Paris, told her that she would make excuses for her tonight, but tomorrow she would need to speak to the media just this once. After that, Madame would concoct a story of fragile nerves and the preference of the new diva's to spend time in solitude. Soon she might be labeled a taciturn eccentric, but that was the least of her fears.

"You danced divinely, Meg. I only wish I was as graceful as you." The sole thorn in her garden, Christine had made one awkward blunder in the final act and should probably apologize to Piangi for knocking into him when she'd turned too swiftly on the stair. Thankfully the audience had not laughed, thinking it all part of the story.

The ballerina gave her a smile that seemed almost bashful, then immediately burst into giggles and grabbed her hand. "Come. We must celebrate!"

"I was to meet someone – "

"The Vicomte and Lady Arabella? I'm sure we'll find them at the cast party."

"But the reporters – "

"You needn't fear them. They can be vultures, but for you I should think they will write nothing but glowing accolades." She studied Christine curiously when her words had little affect to soothe. "Not to worry. They aren't let backstage. The only public allowed is anyone of importance to the theater, like our patron. Interviews are conducted elsewhere, with everyone looking and behaving their best." Meg giggled. "It sometimes gets scandalous back here on a successful opening night, and the managers wouldn't wish the public to read of that!"

"I, I suppose…" Reminded of her attire, Christine looked at her bare feet. "Should I not change out of costume first? At least put some shoes on?"

She glanced toward her dressing room, hoping that he would come tonight. He had sent her the note and the potion and the rose, and encouraged her before her performance. Surely that was a good sign…

Christine frowned, not really knowing what he would do, knowing also, a lot depended on his current mood. He could be as mercurial as a sudden gale that blew hot then cold.

"You can change if you wish to," Meg looked down as well. "You wouldn't want your toes trodden on. Let's hurry."

To her surprise, Meg followed her. Christine said nothing, not wishing to be rude and tell her to go when she'd always been so kind. She took the time only to put on slippers, casting glances to the tall mirror often. Meg grabbed her wrist, pulling her to the door, eager to become part of the gala.

Christine hesitated. "Meg, I'm not sure this is wise…"

"What do you mean?" The dancer's expression hovered between amused and baffled. "You're _the star_, Christine! You have to be there. Now, come along. No one would dare snub you if that's what has you concerned."

Unable to curb a grin at Meg's tenacity, Christine allowed her new friend to pull her through the door.

Once in the thick of the revelry, with performers and crew packing the narrow corridors, to Christine's surprise, a glass of red wine was suddenly thrust into her hand.

"The managers bring out the best on opening night," Meg said, grinning like a simpleton, "but don't tell Maman I know of that. Sometimes she treats me as twelve, not sixteen."

"I thought you only drank wine with meals."

"But this is a celebration!" Meg defended in mock horror that Christine should speak so. "Vive la France and vive le Don Juan…" She giggled, tilting her glass to Christine's – "Let us make merry, for tomorrow we pay the piper, with all the grueling changes of Maman and Monsieur Reyer!"

Christine grinned, shaking her head at Meg's silliness.

Catching sight of Raoul and Arabella, she excused herself from Meg and met them halfway, basking in their praises. Piangi came up beside her, adding his sincere words of admiration, and the four spoke animatedly of the production. All around, groups of people talked, drank, and laughed, while some of the male chorus members began to sing a risqué little ditty.

Christine soon learned that a diva's life on opening night of a major production was not her own. She was praised and congratulated, cheered and toasted, as the wines continued to flow and the merriment did not wane. A few ballerinas sent her envious glances, but for the most part, others who had not done so before now accepted her into their circle of camaraderie. Her hesitance to mingle evaporated more with each taste of wine, and she even tried a sip of the pale champagne Raoul brought her. It tickled her nose and bubbled all the way down her throat, and she decided immediately that she liked the sweet red claret much better.

When living with the de Chagnys, Christine had sampled wines with her meals, of course, but never tippled freely, though the thought had crossed her mind after she'd come out of her catatonic state. To drown her sorrows under the dulling weight of the vine seemed an appealing escape, but her hesitance to cause Raoul and Arabella any more of a scandal than to have a madwoman stay in their home prevented her from turning to a lifestyle of daily inebriation. They certainly didn't need the added embarrassment of a tipsy madwoman as their guest.

As she closed and locked the doors to her dressing room no more than an hour later, Christine wondered if this warm, dizzy feeling was being tipsy. She giggled to realize she still held her wine glass, drained what was left, then set it on the edge of the table, misjudging distance. The glass fell to the carpet but did not break and she ignored it. In the muted glow of two candelabras on her dresser, she called over to the mirror as she staggered further into the room.

"Are you there, my fiendish Phantom?"

When no answer came, she shrugged. "Suppose not."

She missed being with him, missed sharing this night of their musical triumph. After all, it was his as much as it was hers. Bouquets of congratulatory flowers that appeared before the production and during her absence filled her dressing room, their mingled scents overpowering, and she still felt a giddy, happy kind of warmth.

Too much warmth really…

She should ready herself for bed. It was late and there would be an early rehearsal tomorrow.

"For tomorrow we must pay the piper – Madame, and Monsieur Reyer."

She giggled at the absurd little rhyme and worked to untie her red sash, letting it fall to the floor. She then unfastened her glittering gypsy skirt, letting the filmy material float to her bare ankles. Stepping out of it, she stumbled a little and caught herself with one hand to her dressing table. Her black ruffled gypsy corset felt much too tight and after a great deal of working the knot of laces in front she at last had most untied, enough to shrug out of the horrid binding contraption. That left nothing but her chemise that billowed past her hips, and she stared at her reflection in the mirror while pulling off her slippers.

"I am _not_ graceless. Papa said I have the grace of a dancer – and I do!"

Madame had also told her she needed work on her entrances. She frowned. How was she supposed to feel seductive when looking at her lead?

Another face, hidden by a mask, materialized in her mind, and with that for incentive, she swayed her hips as she practiced her walk. Ugh. That really _was_ horrid. She giggled then tugged her sleeve down one shoulder and looked into the mirror brazenly. Was this seductive enough?

"No, that won't do either," she sighed, then pulled both sleeves down, baring both shoulders and again sauntered slowly, only wobbling a little this time.

"Oh, Don Juan…" she softly sang in a bit of improvisational narrative. "Come and find me…"

Madame and Reyer would both have apoplexy if she made up her own lyrics, and her Phantom wouldn't be at all happy either. But she hated the way Aminta behaved. He had such a wrong idea about love, believing it something to avoid at all costs, and especially he was wrong about women, thinking them all ice cold and cruel…

…of course he had wedded her and bedded her so he must feel _something _more for her …

The effects of the claret were clouding her mind. She could not recall why they were apart, not exactly…lies, yes, he had lied. And she had been angry, as was her right. But _he_ hadn't seemed _that_ angry when she pulled his mask away that night – more sad and reconciled…

So why did he not want her?

With a swift decision, she pulled the chemise up and over her head then stared into the mirror, blushing profusely, her entire body now aglow. She had never really looked at herself naked, no more than was necessary to bathe and dress, but now she made a full inspection of her form.

"So, what's wrong with me?" she muttered, tilting her head to the side.

Her skin was mostly flawless, save for the four-inch scar on her upper arm from the beast that once sunk its teeth into her, added to that a few faint and small scars from her childhood romps on the moors. Nothing really obvious. Her breasts were high, round and firm, her waist long and slim, but her hips seemed too narrow. Narrower than those of the ballerinas and those he once favored, surely…no, she _refused_ to think about _them_.

Running her hands slowly from her waist over her hips, she wished they flared a bit more. She really had lost too much weight in the last four years. She halfway turned, to look at her derriere, pulling her long mane of curly hair over one shoulder. At least that part of her anatomy was firm and round, and her legs were slender and long…

Oh, this was silly.

x

From the other side of the mirror, the Phantom stood spellbound in utter shock.

Elated with her performance and wishing to extend his approval once she left the gala, he had arrived in time to see Christine slip one sleeve down her shoulder and take slow unsteady steps, muttering to herself then singing something impossible to make out. He had wondered what in the hell she was doing, when suddenly she pulled her chemise away and stood naked before him, causing the rose he had brought to fall from his hand.

The maid's hopeful seduction in the early morning hours was nothing compared to the sight of his wife's perfect body unclothed and the instant effect it had on him.

Fire raged through his loins as she made her careful inspection while he followed every studied movement with wide eyes. He clutched the mirror's edge, the need to have her growing fierce, but held back, intrigued to see what she would do next. That she had no idea he was there made her innocent and unknown seduction all the more erotic, and when he saw her slide her hands down her hips, he softly groaned, burning even hotter.

The Phantom curled his fingers around the lever, ready to enter her domain, when she whirled away and reached for a wrapper on the chair. Slipping it over her shoulders, she let the sash hang free. Slowly she began to dance and spin as the ivory silk caressed her snowy white flesh.

Slightly unnerved by the similarities to his dream, he could not cease watching, his desire for her more powerful than his reservations. Suddenly she twirled in a circle and crumpled to the thick pile rug.

"_Christine!"_

He threw back the mirror door on its track and rushed to kneel at her side. Cupping his hand behind her neck, he gently lifted her head. Her eyes barely fluttered open and she smiled, her expression one of such delight it made his heart pound in amazement.

"You're here - _at last!_"

She grabbed him around the neck, pulling him down.

Thrown off balance, he fell beside her.

x

Christine had just decided after her dizzy fall that the carpet didn't feel so horrid, in fact it was rather nice, and she would just lie there and take a little nap, when she felt a large hand at her nape and the beautiful voice of her Angel calling her name.

Opening her eyes she saw the room had grown almost completely dark, as if some of the candles had blown out, but the sight of golden eyes burning intently at her from within a black mask made her heart sing.

Without thought she wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, reveling in the desired feel of his hard body pressed to hers. The fine silk of his waistcoat and trousers against her bare flesh made her realize that she was naked and he was fully clothed and this was only the dream. Groaning with the need to experience his touch before he could fade away into the mist, she wove her fingers through his hair and brought her lips to his.

He held still a moment in astonishment, which quickly faded, along with the realization that she wasn't ill or hurt. His hunger for his provocative siren eclipsing all else, the Phantom kissed her back with the same urgency. He cradled her face with his hands, wishing to feel the warmth of her silken skin, and cursed his gloves that let him feel nothing.

Feeling him draw away, Christine made a little cry of disappointment in the back of her throat.

"I know this is only a dream," she whispered, "but don't go yet."

A dream…

He had tasted the sweet red wine on her lips and soon understood the reason for her wanton behavior, but was she aware of anything she did or said?

"Who is with you in your dream?" he asked, keeping his voice low and soft.

"You are," she said, her mind scattered in a haze of confusion.

"And who am I?"

"My masked lover," she whispered blissfully, her eyes closing.

"What is my name, Christine?" he insisted, as if searching for some mysterious answer unknown to her.

"You have many…"

This was such an odd dream, but she did not refrain from answering him. She shivered to feel the touch of his warm fingers slowly sweep her neck and trace her collarbone to a point between her breasts.

"Phantom… Angel… Teacher… Tyrant." She suppressed a giddy giggle.

He sighed, and all the sadness of the world rested in that weary exhalation of breath, making her instantly sorry for her foolish bit of humor, even if the last moniker was at times also true.

"That is all I am to you then."

Her eyelids opened and she looked directly into his eyes, drowning in their golden fire.

"You are the mate of my soul. My husband…"

She took in a soft little breath of wonder as she touched her fingertips to his jaw.

"You are Erik."

With a hoarse sob he could not contain, he crushed her lips with his, stealing away her breath.

Relieved to feel him so possessively ravage her mouth, she responded with the same fervent need.

His hands blazed a trail of tingling fire against her skin beneath the wrapper, wanting to touch everywhere at once, along the curve of her shoulders, down the span of her smooth back, her slim legs and slender hips, clutching her to him desperately. His large hand warm against her bottom, he pushed her against the strong evidence of his want, and she gasped against his mouth, arching her body into his. In one fluid move, he brought her to lie on her back…

…and the world tilted in a sudden crazy plunge.

"Oh." Digging her fingers into his hard shoulders, Christine felt the drugging, heated sensations overwhelm as he pressed kisses to her throat and collarbone, moving lower.

Feeling herself sink deeper into unfocused warmth, everything going hazy, she clung to him as the mist threatened to approach.

"Don't go…"

"I'm not going anywhere."

His promise came dark and heady in the moment before his lips closed around her nipple. Flame shot through her, a surge that lifted her in its swell, but all too soon she crashed, feeling dizzy in the heat he created.

"Make it stop," she whispered.

Her desperate plea reached through the passion thickening his mind and he lifted his head to look at her. Her face was damp and flushed, her eyes heavy-lidded and glassy with desire and fear.

"The room…won't stop spinning."

At her anxious words, he recalled the state of her sobriety, which was nil. Recalled also the one occasion he had been likewise intoxicated and greedily took all that at the time he thought he wanted – from Jolene, from Winnie – confusing those lustful moments in his mind with being with Christine. He had awakened from his drunk stupor bathed in sickened remorse and harsh regrets that to this day still haunted him.

She might not remember this evening; much of his own experience remained in darkness. But now that he had damned all consequences and returned to his Little Angel, it might deal the final killing blow to his heart should their passionate interlude continue to its imminent conclusion and she was to awaken and regret this night.

With a strength of will he could not fully appreciate or depend on, he moved away from her soft warmth. She reached for him, clutching his waistcoat then his arms as he retreated further.

"No - don't go," she mournfully cried.

"Hush…"

Trembling from the depth of his desire, the Phantom lifted her in his arms and stood with her. Christine nestled her head against his shoulder, wrapping her arm about his neck. He remained motionless staring down at her for some time before moving with her to the chaise longue and laying her on the long cushion.

Again, he tried to retreat. Again, she grabbed him, her mouth finding his in a desperate kiss. The temptation burned strong to forget all resolve and make her his once more – but he managed to resist and pull away. When he again claimed her, he wanted her fully aware of every stroke of his hand, every caress of his lips on her skin. He wanted to look into her eyes in the moment he took her and see that knowledge burn deep within, see the desire and pleasure intensify with each stroke into her body, emblazoning himself on her soul so that she could never forget.

His jaw set with determination, he gently drew her wrapper over her aroused flesh that rivaled the softness of the material. Her eyes opened and sadly she looked up at him.

"You're leaving me, aren't you?"

"Close your eyes," he whispered.

"_You always do,_" her words came faint, soft in their accusation, as the dark crescents of her lashes brushed low over flushed cheeks.

His heart twisted at her sadness, no longer sure if she spoke from the haze of her dream or the confusion of her reality. He pulled the coverlet over her shoulders and only then did he stretch out fully dressed beside her atop the velvet sheeting. Instantly she rolled to face him, tightly wrapping her arm around his chest and pressing her body close.

A thousand torments he had suffered, but this, to hold her in his arms as he physically ached to possess her, was sweet torture to bear.

**xXx**


	57. Chapter 57

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews! This long chapter deserves the rating…enjoy ;-)**

* * *

**LVII**

Christine woke to the sound of distant knocking. Every muscle in her body ached, her head throbbed, and her mouth tasted like something most foul.

"Go away," she feebly called, burying her face in the pillow.

The knocking would not cease, and groaning, she climbed off the chaise, belting her loose wrapper around her nakedness, faint glimmers coming to mind of how she came to be that way. After the festivities, which were a blur, she had stripped out of her costume that lay haphazardly spread across the floor. Again she'd had the dream of her masked lover. That, too, was a haze, but she remembered it transpired differently than previous dreams. This time he had whispered to her as he embraced her. She remembered the feel of his cloak being drawn about her body as it was _she_ who slipped into the mist. Later she remembered floating deep in warm darkness to the gentle echo of her Angel's song, the words disjointed, the same she had read long ago at The Heights…

She hated that she had missed him on the biggest night of their lives – _if_ he even had come to see her after the performance – and wished now that she'd not spent so much time celebrating at the gala. Of course he would never appear at any event and risk being seen. Perhaps he even thought Christine had been avoiding him by staying at the party so long – their last time together in the chapel harsh and difficult, ending with her fleeing before the lesson was over.

She sighed and opened the door. Meg's cheery face greeted her.

"You look like a victim of _la gueule de bois_. Here."

Meg held out a goblet of something that had what suspiciously looked like a raw egg floating at its top. Christine wrinkled her nose at the sight.

"_La gueule de_…?"

"_bois_. – Another way to say you imbibed overly much and are now suffering from the wrath of the vine." Meg giggled and Christine rolled her eyes.

"Are you always so cheerful in the mornings?" she grumbled.

"Drink it. You'll feel better. At least it's not a spoonful of soot in milk – what some of the stagehands use."

Christine's eyes widened, bringing another laugh from Meg.

"Hurry. You'll likely want to forego breakfast and wait 'til luncheon, but the reporters will be chomping at the bit for that interview with you before rehearsals start."

Christine grimaced and took the repulsive liquid. Pinching her nose as she'd done when she was a child, she drank the spicy mixture. Hearing Meg giggle yet again, at the moment Christine could cheerfully strangle her friend for being so happy though she did envy her ability to constantly find something to be cheerful about. It seemed that whatever deity had ordered Christine's adult life sent far too much drama with moments of bliss or even simple contentment a rarity.

She must visit with the reporters today, the managers had insisted. With her accent, she needed to be cautious but knew enough Swedish to trick any Parisians into believing that country had been her recent home. At least Madame agreed to field most of the questions.

To look at herself in the mirror a half hour later, Christine felt confident no one would equate the dazzling new opera star with the little hoyden who ran wild on the moors. She had chosen the deep green day dress of pinstriped silk with its huge bustle and black piping and wore the emerald pendant the Phantom had given her. In its filigree setting, the jewel was quite elegant and gave her a feeling of reassurance, however silly to think it, that he was with her. Charlotte came in after the dresser left, to arrange her hair in a simple twist with a fall of curls brushing the back of her neck and beamed with approval at the final result.

Feeling more restored to her normal self, she met Madame in her office. Quickly they went over the story to tell the press. True to her word, when Christine entered the room of men, Madame fielded most of the questions, Christine briefly adding information. _Ja_, she was from Sweden. Her father was British, why she had that accent. _Ja_, she had a great teacher but _nej_, she did not wish to reveal his name as yet. Madame looked at her sharply and Christine hoped she had not erred. Someone called out to her and she looked that way. She blinked when part of a huge black box set up on a pedestal exploded with a brilliant flash of sparks. Madame made a curt excuse that they must now go and prepare for rehearsal.

"What was that?" Christine asked as Madame guided her away from the protesting reporters.

"You have never seen a camera?" Madame looked at her in wonder. "It takes an image of you, like a painting, and makes it into a daguerreotype. You have seen those?"

"Yes." She looked at her nervously. "My image will be in the newspapers?"

"The daguerreotype taken was for the theater only. The managers make a record of their male and female leads and hang their portraits in the foyer. There was an artist who sketched you during the interview, but from a penned drawing no one should recognize you."

Christine nodded. If Madame was not concerned, she would not court fear either.

"I expect you on stage in fifteen minutes in costume for the second act. Monsieur Reyer wasn't pleased with the presentation. He made changes that must be incorporated into the story."

Christine hurried to her room, wondering how on earth she would change from elegant attire into gypsy dress and return to the stage in so little time. She was fast learning that costume changes at lightning speed were essential.

Thankfully the dresser was there to help, first offering her the requisite water with lemon, which Christine dutifully drank, glad for its refreshing effects. By the time she made a quick trip to the water closet, then shed the formality of dress, corset, padding, chemise, stockings, pantalets and shoes, switching to the gypsy costume with its simple blouson and outer corset in need of lacing, along with a colorful skirt –remembering at the last minute to attach the anklets with the bells – more than ten minutes surely had passed. With no time to take down her hair or add the flower, she shook her head when Charlotte approached with the hairbrush and ran to the stage wing where she was to make her entrance.

Arriving breathless and barely in time for her cue, Christine noted Madame's raised brow of disapproval and quickly turned her concentration to the play.

**xXx**

The conductor and Madame kept them at rehearsal for what seemed hours. When at last Reyer excused them, he did so with the order that they would reconvene in twenty minutes to go over the final act. Christine buried a groan, knowing that meant another costume change with little time to rest or prepare.

She hurried backstage and swept through the door of her dressing room, noting the room was darker than when she'd left it. Immediately her arm was grabbed and she was pulled the rest of the way inside. A warm hand covered her mouth before she could protest, at the same time she was swiftly drawn back against a man's hard body. Panicked, she heard the door close and his strong arm wrapped around her just beneath her breasts.

"Do not scream."

At the low, melodic whisper of warm breath in her ear, rivulets of blind terror eroded in a surge of pure anger at his terrifying approach, immediately overpowered by the cool wash of relief and the swift flame of desire. She could feel his every plane and muscle pressed to her back. To know he was _truly_ _there _and standing so close made her melt against his strength and she nodded her agreement to remain silent.

He removed his hand from her mouth and released her. She did not move at once, but slowly turned to face him, her many questions coming to an abrupt standstill before they could be given voice. Her eyes widened at the sight of him.

Her dark Angel stood there, as elegant and regal as ever, his clothing impeccable, a dark cloak of soft wool flowing from his broad shoulders. Instead of the full bandit mask of black leather that once covered two-thirds of his features, a strange half mask of white with a slight sheen to it concealed the right side of his face curving just past his cheek and leaving the left side bare. In the glow from the candelabra partway across the room, she got the impression of a lean, firm jaw and high cheekbone, the half of his nose she could see a straight slope, his golden eye vivid beneath his heavy dark eyebrow. Her hand slowly reached up to trace her fingertips lightly against his exposed temple and flawless cheek down to his shadowed jaw, its bristled texture tantalizing the sensitive pads of her skin. His features were the same but different. Older. Dim lines of pain and maturity where none used to be.

"The candles…it's so dark …" She was barely aware of what she said, her mind lost in a rush of emotion equivalent to what stirred within her pounding heart.

His eyebrow quirked a little, his lips lifting at the corners with a hint of amusement. Her eyes were instantly drawn there.

"A draft in the tunnel," he quietly said. "When the door with the mirror is opened, it creates a gust that stirs the flames."

Her fingertips trembled as they moved to his parted mouth, all of it clearly seen with this new mask. Gently she traced his soft upper lip, then his lower one. He grabbed her wrist to stop her.

"There was no door in the chapel," she whispered.

"No, there was only a wall."

Her eyes lifted to his and held.

"And now?"

"What is it you wish for, Christine?"

His eyes burned into hers, branding her soul so that she could scarcely take in a breath. The very threads of time seemed to stretch, awaiting her answer. Looking deeply into brilliant eyes so gold they appeared to contain eternal fire, she pressed her palm fully to his cheek, and at last cut the threads.

"You."

They stared a moment longer, and suddenly there was no barrier of space between them. His hands grabbed her head, his lips covering hers as pins scattered, falling all around her to the carpet. He clutched handfuls of her thick ringlets that cascaded in soft waterfalls over his fists and moved her head, gaining full access to her mouth.

With a little sob, she eagerly opened for him, welcoming the sweet invasion of his tongue, the hungry pull of her lips with his, the slide of his teeth against hers. Theirs was no gentle kiss; it was rough and heady and painful, tearing through her soul – a stark kiss of hunger and flame and ache and want – and Christine clung to him, craving more. Desperately she moved her hands from clutching his waistcoat to frame them firmly against his face, the mask hard and foreign beneath her left hand, his face both soft and coarse beneath her right one.

He pulled her hands away, moving back, and she let out a sharp protest instantly swallowed in a thick gasp of shock as his mouth found her throat and suckled the delicate skin as if he would consume her. She clutched his shoulders, letting her head fall back, wishing for his heated mouth to cover every part of her body…

"You are exquisite," he whispered, his voice its own velvet caress as his mood changed to one more tender and he pressed moist kisses along her collarbone. "You _were_ exquisite. The voice of an angel…_my Angel_…"

Christine shivered with elation and need at his possessive actions and choice of words, all the more momentous since he rarely gave praise.

Pulling the material of her blouson down, he bared the curve of her shoulder to his seeking mouth. Hardly daring to believe this was happening, she held his head to her, urging him lower...

"Oh."

The soft exclamation did not immediately register, but the intrusive column of light shining into their perfect darkness did.

Startled, Christine grabbed Erik moving closer to him when he suddenly straightened and backed away from view of the corridor. Both warily looked toward the entrance.

Meg stood there open-mouthed before coming to her senses and closing the door behind her. "Pardon…I- I knocked but you didn't answer. I thought you weren't here. But obviously you are, so, um …I seem to do that a lot don't I? I'll just be a moment."

She lifted the costumes slung over her arm, hurried to lay them over a chair, and retraced her steps to the door. Her face glowed pink, and Christine was sure she'd never seen the dancer so flustered. She also felt awkward and speechless to be caught in such a moment, but was thankful it was Meg who'd done so, since she was one of the very few who knew their secret, so Christine felt she would keep a guarded tongue. Erik stood, silent and forbidding, a true Phantom.

Meg stalled. "I don't advise being late back to rehearsal. Reyer is in a foul mood…I-I should go," she said, motioning to the door. "Yes, well, I like the change to the white, monsieur. Adieu."

She bobbed out, closing the door behind her.

Growling a curse, Erik moved into action, grabbing Christine by the arm and bringing her with him to the mirror and through the secret entrance. It was the first she remembered being on the other side, this hidden area dark as night and twice as cold, the drip of water an echo in the distance.

Once he closed the mirror, he rounded on her, again kissing her senseless while pressing her back against the wall of rough rock, his hands protecting her shoulder blades from being bruised. She wrapped her arms around him, uncaring of the time or an angry Reyer, wishing only to remain in her lover's arms.

Sanity eventually returned to the Phantom though his desire for his songbird did not wane. If he did not let her go soon, they would come looking for her. The intrusive dancer might have already gossiped about what she'd seen.

He began to pull away and she clung to his shoulders.

"Christine…"

"I don't care," she insisted. "Have you any idea how long I've waited for you to come back to me?" she whimpered. "To feel your touch…"

"To feel you in my arms," he finished hoarsely, and he damned foul reason, turning her around in the narrow tunnel so that he stood against the rough wall. He brought her against him, with her back pressed to his chest, and drew his arms around her middle, enfolding her within his cloak. Nuzzling the bare side of his face in her silken hair, he kissed the side of her neck.

Christine felt dizzy with the force of her hunger, a match to his own, and melted against his hardness felt at the back of her skirts. Through her thin costume every line of his masculinity was made aware to her. She felt the sudden pull of laces of the gypsy corset, his fingers adroit in their swiftness, loosening the costume until the boning gave way and she was freed…

She shook her head a little to try to think.

"Erik, I-I need to know…_Why_..._?_"

She did not finish but he understood.

"You might come to regret what you discover," he warned, his voice rough velvet, his hands never ceasing with their heated slide over her trembling body.

"I don't care. I just need to know, to understand …" Her words ended on a throaty moan as he slid his hand into the neckline of her loose blouson and his fingers wrapped around her breast, her nipple hard against his palm.

Stunned to feel his other hand rip away the buttons at her skirt, which floated suddenly to her ankles, she gasped in shock.

With her almost naked and hidden within the folds of his cloak he held draped across her, his hands began to do marvelous, wicked things, making her forget all else but the paths of heated exploration they took. He grabbed her bare thigh, his fingers rubbing up along the inner flesh and slipping beneath the hem of her blouson. She shuddered to feel two of them softly burrow into her warm center, his palm cupping her soft curls.

_Oh…dear…God…_

Christine let out her breath in a long sigh and forgot how to inhale.

With his lips buried beneath her ear, the Phantom groaned to feel her so wet beneath his touch, so wanting for him. **_Him_**_,_ and **_not_** that boy. Desperate to relearn her riches, he stroked her silken flesh. Her arousal scented the caverns, his senses swimming with the feel and fragrance of his bride.

_Oh, how he wanted her…_

"You are life-giving nectar, Mon Ange," he whispered against the delicate shell of her ear. "Too long I have been as one dead. Your very warmth and essence restores this demon from his cold underworld. And _you_ want _me_. The proof of your choice drips from my fingertips…"

He rubbed her creamy flesh in gentle circles, barely dipping inside to give credence to the words, and she whimpered at the tingles of heat and merciless pleasure he lathed upon her.

"I must hear you say it, Christine – _once and for all I must know._ Tell me you are mine and want no other! That fool may take credit and take my opera – but I **_will never_** share you!"

"I am yours," she whispered at his gruff command, barely coherent. "…there is no one else…"

Christine lifted her arms, reaching behind to clasp him around the neck, and laid her head back against his shoulder as he continued his delicious assault to her senses. His fingers teased her moistness, drawing out her pleasure, while his other hand manipulated her crest, nestled between the length of two fingers, to an even tighter peak. She panted with need. Her legs trembled, barely able to remain standing.

"**_This_**…" he claimed savagely, even as his thumb gently rubbed the sensitive nub at the thatch of her curls, at the same time he slipped his finger deep inside her body and stroked her hidden walls… "**_is mine_**…"

She cried out moving against him, meeting the thrusts of his hand as he slipped a second finger inside, stretching her tightness.

"**_You_** are **_mine_**…"

She pressed her bottom against his trousers, rubbing against the rigid length of him, needing him, _God_, _needing him so much_.

"Erik, please_…"_ she begged.

"You feel what you do to me," he rasped, arching his hips against her desperate movements, mimicking the plunges of his hand. Her face was a study of light and shadow, flushed and glowing, her full lips parted and wet. He groaned, knowing he must end this now, and sucked in the delicate flesh of her neck, quickening his strokes and sending her over the edge while softly he bit the taut cord.

Her body spasmed in little fiery shocks as she held fast to him, melting into him, losing consciousness of her surroundings, of all but them, as he quenched the unbearable ache and brought her to shattering release. Her hold relaxed, slowly lowering from the back of his neck.

"That was a taste," he vowed, his voice a dark, hungry rasp near her ear, "to carry with you now that we must part. To remind you of who you belong to when you are again in the company of _your_ _friend_…"

"But…" She shook her head in confusion. "You're not leaving?" Incredulous, she clutched his arm to keep him there.

"When I again claim your body it will not be in a damp tunnel of rock, Christine. I want _hours_, not mere minutes to enjoy you to the fullest extent. I will teach you all there is to know of pleasure…"

She felt weak with all of what he made her feel, and troubled that he still thought Raoul a threat. But his words again stirred embers of excitement, making her shiver.

His arms tightened around her, reluctant to let go, before his hands gradually slipped away from her body. She turned in the narrow space, bringing her hands to cradle his head and her lips to his in a deep kiss that pleaded with him to forget the minutes and the hours, she no longer caring if she arrived to the rehearsal late or never.

His hands went to her wrists, holding them a moment before pushing her a step away.

"Go," he spoke the word she had no desire to hear.

Breathless, she frowned. "And if I don't wish to?"

A flicker of a smile touched his lips at her spirit.

"In this, Madame, you have no choice."

"Then you don't know me as well as you think, _Phantom_. You told me I always have a choice …" She pressed her palms against his waistcoat, trailing them downward. "Or do you now retract that vow?"

He caught her hands firmly in his large ones before they could reach his waist.

"You play with fire," he warned.

"What if I _want_ to be burned, to be consumed…by you?" She felt her face flush with heat to be so bold, but he had lit the match within her blood and she had no desire to extinguish the fire.

His eyes flared at her words. "I wish to give you every comfort and pleasure denied you, when I first took you so brutally. And certainly _not_ _this_…" He gave a terse, disgusted motion of his head to their damp, dark surroundings.

She hesitated, a little unnerved by his reminder of the pain, recalling how fiercely it had burned, but she was willing to experience the feeling of again being torn apart if it meant they could be together.

"I don't care where we are as long as I'm with you. Will you deny me _that_ pleasure?"

"Christine, my temptress," he rasped, "soon you will leave me without sound reason."

"When has _anything_ we have shared been logical, since the day you first took me captive?" she insisted with a hoarse laugh. "You began this strange fairytale, my Phantom, and now must see it through to the end. Give in to the passion. Is that not what you taught me with your opera…?"

She lifted her arms free of his grasp and brought his head lower, her eyes meeting the fiery gold of his as she mirrored his confession he told her on The Summit.

"_That_ is my choice, Erik, that is what I want … _I burn for_ _you_ …."

With a dark, low growl, his warm hands grasped her bare hips below the loose blouson and he lifted her, placing her against the back of the mirror door while she wrapped her legs tightly around him. He shifted to fumble with his fastenings with one hand, softly cursing his rare ineptness. She tore loose his cravat and the top buttons of his vest but made it no further as the heavy slow thrust of his body into hers took away all her breath.

His fullness stretched her to the core, making her shiver with pleasure and her eyelashes flutter at the sensation of being thoroughly filled with him. To her surprised relief there was no true pain this time, only tremendous pressure, and eagerly she ground against him, digging her fingers into his shoulders, wishing to bury every inch of him so deep as to get lost within her body.

He gasped at her brazen action. "You will surely drive me to madness," his voice came gruff and sensual at the same time.

"Then it is a madness we both will share…"

Again she tore through his waistcoat to his shirt, not stopping in her search until she found his skin, sparsely tufted with curly hair beneath and hot and damp to her touch. He began to move inside her, his rhythm deliciously slow and steady. She met each stroke as best she could in her position braced against the door, the tinkling bells of her anklets filling the corridor with music and enunciating each plunge.

Bending her head to kiss him long and deep, with her fingers buried in his silky hair, she realized with a start that it was his own and not the wig. In the darkness she had not noticed the difference in color, and she felt a thrill to know he had abandoned the Phantom disguise, coming to her completely as Erik, but soon even that reality was lost to her – her only knowledge his every keen movement inside her body and the intense ache deep within her belly that for a second time began to crescendo.

Closing her eyes, overwhelmed, Christine brought her head back against the wall of the mirror. One of his hands went to her loose blouse that he dragged down from one shoulder. Cupping the lower part of her breast, he lifted her nipple to his mouth, laving the needy peak and suckling her skin. She felt their passionate cadenza burst forth in a powerful rush as the pressure swelled to unbearable heights, at last bursting in the highest note, and she clung to him to feel her body again fragment in miniscule shards of pleasure.

He pulled away from her breast, his thrusts coming darker, and in a delicious haze, every bone and sinew feeling as if it melted into rosy liquid warmth with their fire, she concentrated on the exposed part of his face that the mask did not cover. In the dim candlelight of the dressing room behind the mirror that acted as a window from this side, she could see every glorious expression previously denied her – his need, his ache, his pleasure – and she knew bliss that she'd put those feelings there.

He reached his zenith, exploding deeply inside her. At the sound of her whispered name, Christine felt her heart flutter with tenderness. Breathless, they continued to cling to one another as Erik held still a short time then left her body. Instantly she felt bereft.

Helping her to slide down to stand, he did not once look away from her eyes.

Words seemed lost, fragile, even dangerous in this new closeness between them now that their passion was spent, but Christine could not let the matter that haunted her rest.

They had reconciled without words and made love with their very souls, but still the past loomed dark and disturbed between them.

"Tonight." She kept her eyes on his, her arms still around his neck. "Promise that you'll come tonight, after the performance, to talk. Please…It's important. You know it is…"

A sadness she did not understand filtered into the glazed blackness of his eyes, the gold around them barely seen. He gently broke her hold and adjusted his trousers then bent his knees to retrieve her skirt and corset from the ground. Again he straightened to his full height, placing the costume in her hand.

"Erik," she insisted.

He gave a short nod. "Tonight."

"Where?" Now that she had finally persuaded him to agree, she did not wish to leave anything to foolish chance or simple misunderstanding.

He hesitated as if not wishing to bind himself to his words. "The chapel. No one will disturb us there."

"Face to face." She shivered, the chill of the tunnels piercing into her without the protection of his warm body and his cloak to shield her. "No more walls."

At her firm words and determination to take charge, he could not help but grin. Stepping forward he gripped her head between his hands and kissed her hard on the mouth. He pulled away, his eyes flaring into her dazed ones.

"Go," he said softly and moved to trip the lever.

The mirror slid open.

"Erik…" She pouted. "You can't just push me away. Not after …_not after that_…" She flushed to recall the burn of his hands and mouth on her needy flesh and the feel of him inside her.

"Watch me." Once more he touched her, this time by the shoulders to turn her around and give her a soft little push into the dressing room. She whirled to face him where he still stood in the secret corridor.

"I won't leave this spot until I have your word! I swear it."

His eyes swiftly took in every detail of her scantily dressed form. They flashed in a way that stole her breath, as if he also recalled what just happened between them.

"Saucy wench, do you think I could bear to have walls of stone between us ever again?" His voice came thick. "Now go, before I damn all the fates and forget my resolve not to spirit you away to my dungeons – and put us _both_ in danger of being discovered by the incompetent fools who think they run this theater."

A smile of triumph edged her mouth, but before she could respond that she wouldn't mind being spirited away this time, half hoping he _would_ pounce, the mirror slid shut between them.

Christine sighed, already missing him, but knew he was right. She certainly did not want anyone searching for her or thinking she'd been abducted. If Raoul heard of a second disappearance he wouldn't hesitate to tear down walls to find her in his mistaken belief that he was _rescuing_ her from the Opera Ghost.

The gravity of the mood returned to thwart her spirit from floating too high. She suddenly realized anyone could enter her room – indeed, already had – and she stood in no more than her slippers and a billowy blouson, which barely hung past her hips, with the evidence of their very passionate encounter a warm trickle inside her thighs as had happened on the night she gave him her virginity. She hurried to lock the door then cleansed the traces of desire from her skin with water from a pitcher near the changing screen. The decadent thought that she didn't really mind carrying such a brand of his made her blush, then color even deeper to think of herself walking on stage with that lingering hidden reminder of her dark lover covering her.

_That_ would surely make her entrance more seductive!

She gave a nervous giggle, her face heating to a warmer shade of rose. Heavens! She truly had grown wanton and wicked, but Erik didn't seem to mind. After all _he_ had made her that way – so why should she pretend shame when everything felt hopeful at last?

Quickly she donned her costume, then dabbed on perfume to mask the unmistakable fragrance of their lovemaking, her secretive smile blooming into a gasp of pleasure to see for the first time the perfect red rose that lay on the dressing table. A twin to the first he had sent her on the tray.

She had received massive bouquets as accolades for her triumph, but this one simple tribute was all that mattered to her heart. It, too, gave her hope, reminding her of the simple sprays of wildflowers from the heath that he had left in her bedchamber after they argued when they lived at The Heights.

In those stolen moments in the secret corridor, things had been much as they once were between them, the banter, the fire, the hunger and the mischief, and though she knew the years had changed them both, Christine felt hopeful that their bond, though weakened through time and deception, had never truly severed.

The soul remained forever, and they were each a part of the other's flesh now as well. Even their blood, and her mind went back to the pact of early friendship they made as small children on The Summit and the drops of blood they'd pressed to one another's fingers as a token promise that they would always be there for one another.

Tonight, everything would be made right again. Tonight the obscure veil of lies that hampered their vision would at last be torn away. Tonight she would have her husband, and they could truly begin their new life together.

She had bitten her tongue twice not to speak of her love for him, afraid he would not believe her, worse, that he would mock her, since he scorned affections of the heart. She ached to be deprived of the love he refused to bear. Just as he taught her the dark pleasures of what it meant to burn and be physically fulfilled, she desperately hoped she could teach him to love her absolutely, with tenderness of the heart and not only a lust for her body.

She looked in the vanity mirror then gasped at the raspberry mark on her neck, her face heating with color to remember his mouth there. Without hesitation, she untied the black ribbon from the rose and fastened it around her neck. Tying it in a bow beneath her hair, she covered the mark well enough not to be easily noticed, hoping Madame Giry would not order her to remove it during rehearsal.

She hastened to the stage. Reyer's scowl at her did not go unnoticed, and thankfully Madame also did nothing but glare. The conductor repeatedly slapped his stick on the podium with force and instructed them to begin anew.

With the memory of her Phantom's recent seduction to heat her flesh and give fire to her voice, Christine concentrated on those forbidden moments behind the mirror as a stimulus to entice Piangi in their final duet. Afterward, Reyer beamed at her – rarely had she seen the man smile – and she congratulated herself on her victory.

x

Once Reyer dismissed them, Piangi approached. "Bella Donna, you are an enchantment to the eyes and ears. Tonight your song held passion – sing like that in the performance and they will be falling at your feet, as I, your humble servant do." He attempted a bow from the waist, awkward due to his great girth. "Will you give me the pleasure of escorting you to supper?"

Uncomfortable by his fixed stare and his manner of calling her endearments he should reserve for Carlotta or better yet, his wife, Christine realized perhaps it had been a mistake to exhibit friendliness and share company with him at meals. The intense gleam in his eyes reminded her of how Erik so recently looked at her, and she did not want to mislead this man into thinking she aspired to take Carlotta's place as his mistress.

"I'm sorry, Señor, but I promised Meg I'd go with her to supper."

Spotting the dancer nearby, she latched onto the excuse, speaking loud enough for her to hear.

Meg walked into her role as if she'd been practicing all morning. "Christine." She smiled and hurried toward her, grabbing her arm. "Come along. I have so much to tell you." With a nod to Piangi, she escorted Christine away.

"Merci," Christine muttered beneath her breath.

"It's the least I could do after my blunder earlier. Piangi was right though – your voice was inspired, perhaps by the visit from your guest?"

Christine sent her a swift sidelong glance. "Perhaps."

"That choker is a new addition. I've never seen you wear it," Meg mused, looking right at where the Phantom's mark was, and Christine wished the silk ribbon wasn't so narrow.

"You really aren't sorry at all, are you?"

Meg laughed outright then sobered. "No, you're wrong. It's just so common to enter that room without knocking – I forget it's now your bedchamber. But I _am_ pleased to see that matters have been resolved between you."

"You mustn't tell a soul about any of it…."

"Don't worry. I gave him my promise the night you were wed, and I consider it enduring."

Christine smiled then looked around to make sure no one was close. "Have you ever been in love, Meg?"

"Once I thought I was. Are you?"

"I think I started loving him since the day we met, what seems ages ago."

"We _are_ talking about your husband?"

Christine swatted her arm. "Of course. I shall never be any man's mistress but my husband's. If a wife can be a mistress…." She pondered that.

"Well, that's a good thing, I would think, since he is your master," Meg teased back.

Her master? Christine wrinkled her nose. _No man_ would ever again lord it over her, and the Phantom knew better than to try, as many times as he had attempted it. She hid a grin to think of her rare triumph of _his_ submission in the secret corridor. She had always considered herself Erik's equal in many things. But no matter what mask he wore, as Erik or the Phantom, she did not think he desired a subjugated wife, recalling how he had always admired her fire and spirit. A spirit once broken that he renewed when he became her Angel of Music.

She secretly smiled, and her mind went to her father, who on his deathbed promised her an angel…

**xXx**

The Phantom lit the chapel candles and reflected on the past week with a measure of triumph and dismay.

Tonight, she chose _him, _she had made the choice to honor her vows, but he dreaded what this imminent confrontation would reveal, for a confrontation it was sure to be. Too much had transpired in the last four years, the darkest of wickedness, layers of which she could not begin to grasp, and he had not overstated his contradictory remark when he told her she might not like what she uncovered. Indeed, she would hate it. But she had always been determined to shed light where there were only shadows, both the darkness to be dispelled by a flame and the shadows in one's soul, revealed by truth.

In rediscovering her presence and keeping her with him below ground, old feelings had stirred, his plot against her soon crumbled, and he had finally come to a place to absolve Christine of her old transgression against him, willing to put her betrayal in the past and never speak of it. But that would not satisfy her, and he had been a fool to think it would.

Ever since she was a child she demanded to know the veracity of things, never one to mince words or shy away from airing or hearing the heart of the matter, even if it deeply wounded. He had admired that about her, in a sense still did, but now wished she would let well enough alone. It could do no good to rake up their history, together and apart, with its many twisted secrets, no matter that she felt assured it would help her understand. In this case, to be oblivious was the preferred state of mind. Nor was he sure he could bear to hear her painful confessions of the past …

He lit several torches in the corridors, so she would not have to contend with the darkness she so despised, then walked the lengthy distance to the secret passageway behind the chapel wall that led to the main theater. He had walked a short distance when he heard the faint tinkle of bells, their chimes continual and growing louder. The last he heard that sound had been with Christine hours ago, her costume anklets ringing with her movements. Retracing his steps, he looked through the peepholes into the chapel.

His songbird rounded the spiral of stairs and swept into the chamber, holding a shawl of gold around her shoulders. Her face was radiant, and he took in a breath, stunned anew by her beauty. Curious why she would be there when they agreed to meet after the performance, with the opening curtain less than an hour away, he watched her hurry toward the tier of memorial candles to his right and kneel on the stones. Using a taper, she lit a candle.

"Papa," she said in a hesitant voice, "I feel that if anywhere you should hear me, it would be in this sanctuary of music." She lifted her gaze to the ceiling, her smile wistful. "How many times did I beg you to call me Little Lotte? And that last day, you promised to send me the Angel of Music…" She gave a light laugh. "I later came to believe you did that to soothe a grieving daughter and no such creature exists. But I _did_ find him, Papa. I found my Angel…"

He watched in bewilderment, his heart moved by her words and the picture she made, with the glow of sunset from the stained glass window showering upon her and casting her in brilliant hues of light. Since Christine had come to the opera house, he felt no qualm to eavesdrop, leery of her actions and wishing to spy, but now, in hearing her talk to her father, he felt uneasy to listen. Nor did he feel comfortable with disturbing her peace by announcing his presence. Yet he found he could not leave. As she spoke to her father, his thoughts went to the unassuming and pious man.

Gustave Daae had never been demonstrative toward Erik, reserving all his warm affection for his little girl. But he had given Erik a home, seen to his education, and treated him well enough in those short years before his death. Then, with the change of the minute hand to the next revolution around the clock, Erik had everything snatched away from him and was physically restrained and beaten when he tried to defy the new master of The Heights. His room, his nice clothes, his possessions – all were taken, and he was forced to live as an animal in the stables. Henri spent the years that followed determined to make Erik's life a daily torment with his constant jeers and cruel punishments.

His hands clenched into fists. He wished her cur of a cousin was here now. Gladly he would wring the man's neck for his crime against Christine, that he had _dared_ try to defile her. He closed his eyes to the mental image that evoked, breathing hard, fighting the mounting desire to wreak destruction. She was alright. She was here. He would never let harm come to her again…

"I have a favor to ask, Papa," she said with a sigh, bringing Erik's attention back to her. "I know you cannot alter the fates, but tonight is very important. So much has happened. Perhaps you know?" She grew absorbed in the candle's flame a moment before lifting her eyes again. "Would you please ask the heavenly angels or the saints or, or perhaps the Almighty Father to guide me in what to do or say…?"

Her voice became very small, as if she could not dare believe she asked for such a thing, and he frowned thinking an Angel had every right to make such a petition.

"I still have a terrible habit of speaking falsely in my hurt pride, to hurt those who've crossed me. You warned me about being too prideful and watching my tongue, and I honestly _have_ tried, Papa. Though it's been difficult…Perhaps if I had learned, and remained silent years ago, and had not been so upset when I felt he spurned me after, well…after we returned from the moors, then I wouldn't be in this predicament and seeking guidance tonight. I honestly want to do better. I must. I'm his wife now and no longer a child. But he no longer trusts me, and really, I don't blame him…I don't trust myself, or I wouldn't be here now…" She shook her head in disgust.

Erik remained frozen in place, his mind scattering in a dozen different directions at once.

"I have to go, the opera will soon begin. Only please, be with me tonight. I don't want to get angry and say something I shouldn't and cause more damage than I have. I miss you, Papa…."

Erik could only stare in shock as she hurried to her feet and rushed from the chapel, the tinkle of bells marking her progress. Barely aware he did so, he resumed his trek.

She had said she spoke falsely that night, perhaps _at The Grange_ as well? He had warned her many times never to speak _to him_ words she didn't mean, and she had sworn she never would. Had she spoken out of hurt, inflicting pain _when she thought_ _him absent? Both_ times? With her candid outpouring, was there a chance she might actually _love_ him?

He struggled to keep his heart from soaring too high - knew he was hoping for too much. Where had hope ever gotten him? He was twisting her actions of the past into what he wished, and resolved to rely only on facts of the present. She chose to become his wife and chose to act like a wife, even after knowing who and what he truly was. And that was more of heaven than he ever imagined possible for a creature like him to have…

Christine's distant scream chilled the Phantom's blood and halted him in his tracks for one terrifying moment. Whirling about, he raced for the door that led to the abandoned corridors.

**xXx**


	58. Chapter 58

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews! Our A/C went out for a few days and I couldn't run the computer (or any appliances) for lengthy times. I'm behind in a lot, so thank you for your patience in this. With regard to this chapter - it was all leading to this and had to be done. But this is far from over…Again, I should have halved this story somehow, but didn't, and it's too late now. So think of it as two rolled into one- or a miniseries - ;-) …and now…**

* * *

**LVIII**

**.**

Christine swept through her dressing room, slamming the door shut behind her. Rapidly she turned the key with hands that had begun to shake, making the routine task difficult. She pulled the key from the keyhole, gripping it tightly in her clenched fist, and pressed her forehead against the rose-colored wood, willing her terrified heart to cease pounding.

She was safe. She had gotten away before he could do true harm. In the condition she left him, there was no way he could have quickly followed.

Regardless of that knowledge, her breaths came out in rasping sobs of anguish. Tears escaped from beneath tightly squeezed lashes as she held her palm pressed hard to the door. Leaning her upper weight against the wood and using it as a brace, she wondered what to do, or if she should do anything at all.

Would it matter if she did?

Who could she speak to? Should she even speak? To Meg? Madame Giry? Did she dare? Certainly not the managers. She doubted if whether she said anything or remained silent it would make any difference at all, except to prolong and intensify her humiliation. Meg told her such things were part and parcel of theater life, a burden they all had learned to bear. The opera would go on, and Christine did not expect it to do otherwise.

But could _she_ sing?

Her body still trembled all over, her throat felt too tight, as if it might suddenly cut off all breath, and she was certain she could not relax enough to allow the proper breathing that her Maestro insisted upon.

Her understudy could take her place, and for a frantic moment, Christine almost followed through with the idea, just stopping herself as her hand closed around the knob. It would accomplish nothing and might make Raoul suspicious enough to interfere. If he knew, if he learned of this, he might insist that she leave – no, he _would_ insist on it – no longer allowing her the option to live at the theater. He was in charge in this place. He could order her to go…

And she could not leave, not now, not after all that occurred, in spite of what just happened.

She trembled at the memory, clutching the neckline of her blouson tightly at her breasts.

Erik would be displeased if she did not do what was expected and demand to know why she had not appeared for the performance. He would search her out and, terrible liar that she was, would see right through any excuse Christine might fashion, as if she were the ghost.

At the moment, she wished she was...

A sudden knock near her head startled her and she gave a sharp cry, dropping the key and almost jumping out of her skin. She backed away from the door, looking at it as if it were a deadly trap, and covered her mouth with both hands, fearful to make a sound.

"Mademoiselle Grendahl? Please, to let me inside? Oui?"

Christine almost sobbed a laugh of relief to hear Charlotte's muted voice on the other side of the door. She took in a deep breath and closed her eyes. She _must_ seek composure and allow no one to suspect a thing. Wiping tears from beneath her lashes with the backs of her hands, she opened the door to her hairdresser, again quickly closing and locking herself inside the moment Charlotte stepped into the room.

The woman did not comment on her brusque actions but looked at her clothing in puzzled surprise. "Is that not the wrong costume, mademoiselle?"

Christine forced her mind off the dangerous track on which it had been careening, detrimental to bring any peace that she must somehow obtain, and answered Charlotte. "Yes, yes it is. I wore this for the final rehearsal and forgot to change. I'll do so now."

She went behind the screen, not waiting for her dresser, able to manage to unlace the black corset with its embroidered red and yellow flowers that strung up in front in the style of the gypsies. She shed her clothes quickly and grabbed a sponge, scouring every inch of her shoulders, neck and face with water, trying to rub away the terrifying memory that brought disgust and made her stomach churn as if she would be sick.

"S'il vous plait, you must hurry," Charlotte said, her English improved since the first time they met. "The opera begins only minutes away."

"Yes, yes of course," Christine called out, unable to fashion any other words, her mind again becoming her tormenter.

Time had slipped away faster than she had supposed. She had tarried overly long in the chapel, and at the thought, she shivered, wishing she had never gone there in the first place. Thankfully her debut entrance did not begin until ten minutes into the opera, and she hurried into her costume for the first act.

While Charlotte fashioned her hair and arranged the flower, pinning it into her wild ringlets, Christine forced herself to concentrate on the present, using the stage cosmetics to the best of her ability. Meg taught her how, and with practice Christine had achieved adequate results, though now her hands trembled so much the paint smeared twice, and she had to dab the mistakes away, starting over, the chore taking twice the usual amount of time. Once finished, she winced to see her neck, now bare, and swallowed hard, dabbing light pigment over Erik's mark of that afternoon.

Their momentous reunion in the secret corridor seemed a lifetime ago. She wanted him with her now, _needed_ him to hold and reassure her, but it would not do for him to see her like this. No, it would not do at all...

Staring at her image, which reflected misery and not the gay expectancy of Aminta's arrival into the festive city, Christine struggled to shake all dark clouds away and applied bright lip rouge, the last of the artifices required.

Once she arrived at the wing from which she would enter the stage, the opera was already in progress, approximately five minutes into the first act. From several feet away Madame glared at Christine, her expression suddenly switching to concern. Meg put a hand to her shoulder.

"Are you alright?" she whispered.

Christine weakly smiled. "Of course."

Meg smiled in encouragement. "You've done this once already and proved to each and every one of them out there and up here that you're the new reigning diva. Don't be afraid. You can do so again. It won't be so difficult to go onstage this time as it was the first night. I promise."

Christine nodded, clutching a hand to her throat as she kept her attention focused on the frolicking of the dancers, while trying to suppress the fear that had nothing to do with her upcoming performance. Desperately she worked to clear her mind in preparation to become Aminta.

She watched the nimble dancers gaily cavort in choreographed leaps and twirls about the stage, the girls dressed in pure frothy white, the men in colorful costume, all of them exulting in a spring dance in celebration of the birth of May. One of the ballerinas motioned gaily for her friends to join them, as scripted. The pair eagerly danced toward her, with long wide ribbons of light blue satin that each fair-haired dancer held gracefully rippling behind her in the air, reminiscent of undulating streamers of sky.

The first ballerina was lifted from behind onto the shoulders of a strong male dancer. Her smile was bright as she gracefully extended her arms and looked upward in homage to the heavens. She continued to stare, as if struck immobile, her painted white face and ruby red lips altering into a grotesque mask of stark terror – and she screamed at the same time a blur of movement in the darkness above caught Christine's eye...

Before she could wonder at the cause, a workman plummeted mid-stage, in front of the maypole, his neck caught in the noose of a rope.

Christine stared with eyes so wide they hurt. She stood frozen, not really believing what she was seeing. From the stage and the audience both horrified screams of shock erupted over the music, which came to a discordant halt. In the pandemonium the spring dancers retreated from midstage in fright and confusion while many in the crowd surged forward in their seats to better view the ghastly spectacle. The victim jerked mid-air in a macabre dance, his legs kicking as he uselessly grabbed at the the rope digging deep. Slowly it twisted around until Christine heard the sickening snap of bone. His head lolled sideways and his body twitched then went limp, suddenly falling lifeless to the stage. The taut rope followed, coiling on top of him as if it had just been cut.

The grisly occurrence happened in less than half a minute though it felt as if time moved much more slowly, the seconds themselves seeming to be disrupted by the incident and too shocked to progress at their normal rate. Through the entire episode Christine found it impossible to tear her eyes away from the stocky man who lay lifeless on the stage. As swiftly as the dancers had retreated at the enactment of true death, several began to swarm forward and around the body, now that the Reaper had come and gone claiming his victim's dark soul.

Meg looked high above and gasped, then hurriedly brought her attention back to the body. Still stunned with the mind-numbing shock of having just witnessed a man die before her eyes and in such a ghastly way, while barely able to comprehend all of what happened, Christine also glanced up to the flies.

There was no one there.

"An accident!" Monsieur Firmin yelled from the managers' box directly across from Box Five. "Please, ladies and gentlemen – keep your seats. It was only an accident!"

Many in the audience caught on to the panic on stage, the seats swiftly vacating and the theatre emptying as gentlemen escorted their female companions, a number of them appearing to be traumatized, to the nearest exits. Dainty gentlewomen waved their fans before their faces and clutched their escort's arms, as if in danger of swooning. The ballerinas fluttered and flocked to the wings like frightened swans, several seeking out Madame Giry, who stood straight and grim-faced as though made from ebony and white marble, like a part of the theater, and not flesh and bone mortal at all. With brusque directness she told the girls to pull themselves together, her only proof of her humanity the slight tremble of her arm as she wrapped it around Jammes, the youngest of the dancers, who wept fiercely.

Christine could tell the girl that Death neither knocked nor asked. It took what it wanted whenever it pleased, and now had taken one of the theater's own. But this time, Death had surely been assisted...

A terrified crew member ran past, almost knocking her off her feet. "He'll kill us all, he will! This theatre is cursed! I'll not stay another day!"

Meg grabbed Christine's arm. "Come! It's not safe here."

Her mind still in a whirl, Christine gave no resistance as Meg ran with her backstage in the direction of her dressing room. All around members of the crew and chorus raced to and fro without seeming to have a true destination, like frightened mice being chased by a great unseen cat. Others stood helplessly still, in a frenzy, not knowing what to do. Everywhere there was a chill sense of panic.

"It's _him!_" a dancer exclaimed.

"Are you sure? Did you see?"

"I _know_ it was! Who else could it be?"

Performers gathered in groups, exclaiming in nervous, excited undertones and whispers. More than a few cast looks of suspicion and uncertainty in Christine's direction as if she was to blame. Meg led her through the throngs, and the dancers' whispers grew hushed as they stared.

Christine kept her head held high though she felt oblivious to all of it, their foolish slights mere pinpricks compared to the heavy stabs that sliced into her heart in knowing what must be true... what she could not allow herself to think...

They reached the dressing room, but before she could find sanctuary inside, Raoul appeared, Arabella behind him.

"Christine! Thank God you're alright." He grabbed her arms and pulled her into a quick embrace, just as swiftly letting her go. "Miss Giry, thank you. You should go find your mother. She's looking for you."

Meg nodded as if undecided, but thus dismissed by their patron, she glanced once more at Christine then hurried away.

"We must get you out of here," Raoul said then turned to Arabella. "Giles will be waiting outside with the coach. Take Christine and return to the hotel, then tell him to come back for me."

His soft commands brought Christine out of her stupor.

"Raoul – no, I cannot leave –"

"You cannot stay." His voice grew quieter as he darted a look beyond her, to see if they were being observed, before his eyes again settled on her with grave intent. "The gendarmes have been summoned, Christine. We have come too far in keeping you safe to risk allowing the plan to fall to pieces now."

"But –"

"They might recognize you if they've been given your likeness, which could be the case if the inspector who worked with Scotland Yard contacted them. He knows of my trip to France so he very well could have alerted them if he suspects my activities from when I was questioned. The gendarmes could become suspicious of you. It is likely they will want to question the performers and especially those who saw what happened, and that includes you. It is simply too dangerous for you to stay here another minute."

His sharp caution broke through her muddled objections and took hold, reminding her that she was wanted for murder, also a criminal, even if only by accident and not through choice. Resigned, she nodded her acquiescence.

"What of you, Raoul?" Arabella asked.

"Father left me in charge. The managers have thus far looked to me for answers in all things, and I don't imagine that has changed. I must somehow attempt to repair the damage as bloody well as can be done, if that's even possible. Once the police finish their preliminary investigation, I'll return. But both of you must go now – and go quickly!"

"Wait!" Christine held back when Raoul took hold of her arm and moved with her as if anxious that she might choose to linger. "My cloak and shoes – I need them. I cannot leave like this!" Christine wore soft slippers only during rehearsals, not continually wishing to traverse the cold wood and icy stones on bare feet, but for the performance the wild gypsy Aminta wore no shoes.

"I'll get them," Arabella said.

"Meet us at the coach," he tersely whispered to his cousin, a look of dread suddenly crossing his determined features.

Before Christine could ask, he swept her up in his arms and began to carry her away, toward the nearest exit.

"Raoul - _what are you doing?_" She grabbed him around the shoulders for balance. "I can walk, Raoul. My feet are not unaccustomed to cold stones."

"They're already here."

"The gendarmes?" Christine asked, horrified, and looked over his shoulder not awaiting an answer.

Two policemen in black with round steel helmets spoke to a male member of the chorus. He pointed in their direction.

"Oh, God," Christine looked away, ducking her head into Raoul's neck. "Someone just pointed us out."

"Don't be afraid, Lotte," he soothed, though he picked up his pace at a faster walk, almost a run, "It is likely they only wish to speak with me about this horrific state of affairs and it has nothing to do with you at all. Soon you'll be away from this place and can put tonight behind you..."

Conflicted, Christine did not argue with his claim that she would wish to leave the theatre. She simply had no choice, and there was no point.

The chill wind hit her with force as he hurried outside and toward a waiting black coach parked at the side of the cobbled street. She drew closer to Raoul upon feeling the bitter cold slice through her scanty costume. At their sudden appearance, the driver awkwardly pocketed what looked like a flask, clearly not expecting his services to be required so soon, and stepped down from his seat in evident surprise.

"My lord?" He glanced at Christine in curiosity as he posed the question.

"You're to take Miss Grendahl and my cousin back to the hotel then return for me."

"Very good, milord."

The driver opened the carriage door, and Raoul sat Christine on the bench seat inside.

"Get some rest. Try to put this all behind you," he repeated his earlier counsel with a weak smile that sadly failed to encourage. "I'll be along later."

Arabella came up behind him, and the cousins shared words that Christine could not make out. Arabella then climbed into the coach and handed Christine her cloak and slippers.

Burrowing beneath the heavy woolen folds, she pulled her legs up beneath it, warming her feet, and closed her eyes. The horses took off with a start, the sound of their hooves hollow on the cobbles.

In the relative dark stillness Christine tried to relax – had it only been minutes ago she stood awaiting her cue? – but in the calm silence, she could no longer block out what she perceived to be the awful truth.

In her mind, as though painted there, she could still see the bulging dead eyes of the stagehand who earlier had accosted her in the empty corridor...

...while in her heart she had strong cause to believe that his murderer, the man about whom the dancers had so fearfully spoken, was the Phantom of the Opera.

x

The short drive was undertaken in heavy silence, the gravity of the moment again creating the illusion that time seemed to progress at a more sluggish pace. Christine almost wished for Arabella's custom of filling in the dark voids with inconsequential words that pertained to nothing of current significance.

In the voids she thought too much, and she did not wish to think.

Once the coach thankfully arrived at the hotel a short distance from the Opera House, Christine recognized it as the same establishment they stayed at a little over three years ago, on her first visit to France.

Grateful for the folds of the cloak that covered her costume, dreadfully out of place and flagrantly brazen in this posh establishment, she kept her head down and followed Arabella inside.

"Lady de Chagny," a man said, halting them. "I trust everything is alright?"

"Yes, thank you. Please have a maid bring tea to my suite."

"Of course, my lady. Was the opera not to your liking this evening? I have heard the music is dreadful."

Angered by such a remark, Christine lifted her head to see who would have the gall to criticize Erik's musical genius so harshly. She was met with the cold dark eyes of a short, trim man with black goatee and mustache. Though he addressed Arabella, he had been curiously staring at Christine.

"The opera itself is quite delightful, and I find the music both interesting and innovative. Now, if you'll excuse us." Arabella moved away, Christine following her up a wide staircase that wrapped around the wall in a spiral to the upper landings.

"The hotel is really quite lovely," her friend said to Christine as they took the steps, "but it would be a great deal lovelier if they would remove that annoying little man as concierge."

Despite the darkness of the situation that brought her here, Christine felt a smile tilt her lips at Arabella's dry remark. As they turned with the curve of the stair, Christine looked down into the spacious lobby, alarmed to see that the concierge had his face tilted upward and was still watching her.

"Pay him no mind," Arabella urged, noting the direction of Christine's stare. "From all I have witnessed he makes it his duty to interfere in the guests' affairs, perhaps because he feels his title of management gives him that privilege."

Christine vaguely nodded. After her earlier encounter, his attention made her more nervous than usual. At least he did not leer. Rather, he looked at her as if she was a complicated puzzle he was working to figure out. He was not the only one who stared at her in such a peculiar manner. Several guests in formal attire and walking downstairs did the same. She wondered if perhaps they had been to the opening of the opera the previous evening and recognized her without fully understanding why or had perhaps seen a printed flyer advertising the Don Juan that had been plastered on the outside of buildings in the city. Surely, though, she could not be recognized from that. She, as Aminta, was not prominent in the picture, her face somewhat obscured in shadow. The management had wished for the illustration to add to the mystery of the unknown diva and further entice the crowds to visit the theatre and see the new leading lady for themselves.

Christine never thought she would be so relieved to enter the de Chagny suite.

Arabella closed the door of the sitting room and turned to Christine, taking her gently by the shoulders and looking directly into her eyes.

"Now tell me, honestly, are you alright?"

She nodded, unsure of anything at the moment.

"I have an extra bed gown you may use, but we must find you a day dress to wear. I'm afraid nothing I have will fit, unless I can locate a seamstress to try to take down the hem."

Christine shrugged and sank to a chair. "I can return in what I have on."

"Well, perhaps…" Arabella looked doubtful. "At least the bed is quite spacious and I insisted on pillows with goose feathers, so you shall rest in comfort…"

Arabella began to prattle about everything and nothing, as was her wont, while Christine tried not to think about what was happening at the opera house. Tea at last arrived, and the maid set it on the table, looking at Christine in open curiosity.

"Thank you, Giselle," Arabella said, breaking her concentration. "Would you mind tending to the fire?"

"Oui, mademoiselle." The pretty maid gave a little curtsy.

She put more fuel on the low burning embers and stoked them, all the while casting glances at Christine. Christine wondered if the de Chagnys never entertained company for all the colossal notice she'd been given by the staff.

Once the maid left, Christine moved to the cozy table for two near a large window that looked out upon the street and sat down to drink hot tea with Arabella, who filled in the minutes with more mindless chatter. The scenario reminded Christine of another time they anxiously awaited Raoul's return from investigating what had turned into a grisly murder.

Only this time she was not the cause.

Frowning, she looked into her cup.

"I was speaking to a new acquaintance of ours this week, Lord Cavendish, and though he's not a devotee of the opera, he is well versed in history and mythology among other things," Arabella said, pouring herself another cup. "He told me the name Aminta comes from the Greeks and means vindicator. I find that interesting since the merchant seeks vengeance on Don Juan for what happened to his sister, and with Aminta's help, she aids in the plot to punish him. Do you suppose her name was chosen with that purpose in mind?"

"I wouldn't know." Oddly enough a vindicator also stood for the opposite: a protector and defender who worked to clear someone from blame.

Which one was she?

She did not wish to think but could do little else. She was not weary but needed to be alone.

"I'm sorry, Arabella. I really don't care to speak of anything concerning the opera right now."

"Of course." Her expression was instantly contrite. "How thoughtless of me."

"No, it's alright. But I think I would like to lie down. It's all been rather much..."

"My room is through that door." Arabella motioned behind Christine toward a closed door. Another like it stood opposite the room, directly across from Arabella's, and Christine assumed it to be Raoul's bedchamber. "The maid will have laid out a bed gown. Go ahead and use that and I will retrieve another."

"Thank you."

Christine summoned a smile of gratitude but did not relax until she was on the other side of the door. Despite the room being cold, she was immediately drawn to the balcony window and the glow of gaslights outside, and moved toward the double doors.

Opening them wide, she stepped outside to look, her cloak gently whipping around her in the soft wind. This high, on the third story, and beyond the shorter buildings, she could see part of the pearl white marble of the opera house with its many circular windows glowing blood red in the distance and a row of Grecian gold statues crowning the top.

She shivered at the sudden bite of frosty air that chilled her face and ears and retreated inside, closing the doors and pulling back the drape across them to provide dim light, not wishing to turn up the lamp. Accustomed to dressing and undressing in frigid temperatures, she quickly exchanged her costume for the long white bed gown that lay spread out on the bed and climbed beneath the heavy covers.

Wide awake, she stared at the ceiling for some time before the room grew abruptly colder...

And she knew she was no longer alone.

With very little surprise, for she had half hoped, half expected he would come, Christine looked toward the balcony doors that again stood open.

With the faint glow of the Parisian night for a backdrop and the silvery sheen of the moon outlining his head and broad shoulders, he stood tall at the threshold of the room, his cloak gently swirling around him from the wind. Silent and mysterious, he wore a wide-brimmed fedora tilted rakishly over his head. The vulnerable white mask had disappeared. Now he wore the full shielding black, but she could see the dim glow of his eyes even in this darkness.

Silently she commanded her heart to cease its swift pounding at the enthralling sight of him and slowly sat up in bed, with the coverlet held to her chest.

Her solemn gaze met his veiled one.

"I have one question," she said quietly, her voice steady though inside she trembled to hear his answer. "Did you kill him?"

Her dark Angel said and did nothing for a long, breathless moment, then stepped into the room, his arm sweeping behind him to close the balcony door.

.

**xXx**

* * *

**Duh-duh-duh-dummmm, duh-duh-duh dummmm!**

**(runs)**


	59. Chapter 59

**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews! You guys had me giggle and grin quite wickedly. ;-) I'm glad you're enjoying the latest twist to the story … and now…**

* * *

**LIX**

.

Christine waited to hear his answer with expectant dread, watching as he drew himself up and stood so formidable and tall, at one with the shadows, a master of the night.

The Phantom stared at Christine in resigned despair, where she sat clutching the covers to her bed gown on the furthest side of the bed ...

But_ whose_ bed?

"Why are you here?" He kept his voice low, but it trembled with a surge of jealous rage that he felt helpless to ignore and worked hard to suppress. "I thought you wished to meet in the chapel tonight, to talk."

She stared at him with wide, luminous eyes, her lips parting in disbelief. "Surely, you cannot think – after all that has happened..."

He tilted his head in indifference, lifting his brow in mild question.

"Erik. A man was _murdered _tonight_ – _onstage, _as I watched_ _–_ during the first act of the opera!" she added unnecessarily, her tone rising just above a strident whisper. "_…_But – but you knew that before anyone else - didn't you?" She clutched the covers more tightly to her breasts, her voice coming out hoarse. "_You_ killed him..."

Her final words of horrified conviction came softly and trailed off, even as her expression revealed disbelief, as if she wished him to state otherwise. The Phantom grew defensive, lifting his gloved hands in a careless shrug.

"And if I did? He _harmed_ you, Christine. He tried to _molest _you. I swore that no other man would ever lay a hand on you again!"

His blunt response came harsh in expression but gentle in volume and made her wince.

"How… how did you know…?"

"I know."

Those two simple words were filled with so much he did not say, leading her to believe that in matters concerning the opera house he was omniscient and knew all of what went on there. Everything considered, knowing all she knew about him, the probability did not come as a great surprise.

She dropped her troubled gaze to the satin coverlet, recalling the terror of that moment in the empty corridor. The drunken fiend had darted out from the shadows, grabbing her and taking her by surprise. He had held her struggling in his clutches, his meaty paws raking her back, his mouth slavering at her face and neck as he held her to the wall and angrily grumbled how all divas seemed to think they were so much better than he – taunting her about the raspberry mark he uncovered...jeering that if she really wanted a fuck so bad, she had no need to wander empty corridors like the dancers did, in the hope that the Ghost would give her what he was more than willing to share.

Christine's face burned hot while she remembered the vulgar man's crude words and lewd acts.

Swift and silent the Phantom approached, fully regaining her rapt attention. He pulled something from his cloak and dropped it to the empty side of the bed.

She looked there, recognizing the thin shawl of gold she had worn to the chapel and lost in her struggle to flee from the stagehand. She had finally managed to bring her knee swiftly up to his groin as hard as could be done, which awarded her instant freedom, then she had fled in terror, leaving her shawl still in his hands.

"You _saw?_" she whispered in shock.

"No, Christine. Had I _seen_ I would have not stood by and merely _watched_. I came after you fled from the vile brute. I noticed the bloody scratches on his cheek and saw him throw your shawl to the ground. I heard the words he said aloud to himself, inferring that there _would_ be a next time and you would not come out so lucky then. I followed and arrived to see him peer at you through holes that had been bored into the wall of your dressing room. Holes he must have once put there. Before I could get to him, your hairdresser arrived and he raced off like the loathsome coward he was. I looked, to ensure that you were unscathed, then followed."

At his direct, impassive words, a myriad of emotions vied for control, too turbulent to settle into manageable comprehension – shock and disgust to learn the wall had peepholes through which that awful man had watched her – _how many times? _Relief to know Erik had cared enough to look in on her, fear to realize what he was not saying, what he still refused to state, the one answer she had pleaded with him to give…

"Come, we must return to the opera house." He held out his gloved hand to her. "You do _not_ belong here. With _them_."

She shook her head brusquely in frustration, ignoring his outstretched hand. "And what of my earlier question? _Why_ will you not speak it...?"

Nothing more would emerge from her throat as she looked up at him, the need to know, to hear him say the words blatant in her eyes.

He dropped his arm back to his side. His mouth drew into a thin line, his face still veiled in shadow, but discernible. From beyond the mask, his eyes burned into hers.

"Yes, Christine, I ended the scoundrel's life. It was no accident, and I make no apology for it. I would gladly do so to _any man _who again dares to harm you."

The Phantom watched the light in her eyes dim, and it bruised his heart.

If only he had arrived before anything could happen ...

If only he could have been there in England.

Christine stared at him in miserable reflection, wishing this waking nightmare would just fade away, that she would awaken in her dressing room. Better yet, his bed. That no part of this evening had occurred...

His raspy declaration had seemed torn from the depths of his soul, reminding her of England and how she also killed to defend herself from the same harm. With the truth now irrevocably aired, her eyes dropped to her lap covered with the bedding, as she tried to make sense of this moment, of this entire night. He had hunted out her assailant and ended his life for his crime against her. She had bludgeoned Henri in the act, before he could fully steal her virtue. One death was calculated, the other accidental, both of them crimes wrought in passion. But was what she did any less wrong?

Taking a life was criminal, no matter how one justified the act. If it were not so, she would not also be in hiding...

Her eyes briefly fell shut in despair. It seemed her life was forever to be haunted by death.

"And so, now in your heart you convict me of wrongdoing when my sole desire was to protect you?"

His question came distressed and resigned, laced with anger, and broke the uneasy silence that prickled between them.

"No, I don't. To do so would be unjust. But you should not have done it, Erik."

"You would prefer that I had overlooked his crime against you and let the scoundrel go unpunished? Perhaps locked him into a room as I did Jolene?" His scathing words remained low and burned into her soul like acid. "Do not try to convince me of that, my dear, for I would call you a little liar. Tell me you are not _relieved_ he is gone and will no longer present a problem for you. I saw the distress you suffered after his attack."

She could not deny it and that made her feel as guilty as he was for the act, to be grateful for another man's death, no matter his offense. Forcing such wicked feelings down and resolute to dwell on what was considered moral and proper and right, as her papa had taught her, as she had learned from the de Chagnys during her stay at The Grange, she felt compelled to speak.

"The police could have intervened. As is their duty -"

"The police would not have bothered to investigate." He impatiently cut her off before she could form the rest of her sentence. "This is a gentleman's world, my dear. In all likelihood they would have thought you were lying and had a lover's tiff with the fiend. As you no doubt have learned in past years, women are regarded as a man's property, whether it be a father, husband, or guardian, and a performer of the stage is considered to be of ill repute by all in this _society_."

She grimaced at his derisive explanation, sadly knowing it was true. "Then you could have simply discharged him. I _know_ you have authority in the Opera House and make such demands with your notes."

He took a rapid step forward, his legs now brushing the edge of the bed, and lifted his gloved hand to point at her.

"You knew what I was when I first brought you to my caverns." His tone was reproachful. "I never hid the fact that I was a murderer – you _knew_ of it, and why I was in hiding when you thought me only the Phantom."

"For killing the man who attacked the children at the hotel," she supplied wearily, her gaze downcast. Just as swiftly she looked up at him with alarm at the sudden realization. "_This_ hotel."

"Yes."

She blinked, at once grasping the danger he had placed himself in to see her, and she sat up straighter. The blanket fell away but she ignored it.

"You should not have come here. They'll catch you!"

He waved a hand in unconcern. "They did not catch me then, they will not catch me now. Due to my less than sterling reputation, I have long learned to swiftly blend into the shadows if need be and become nothing more than a ghost. In part, it is how I acquired my name."

"Erik…" Something about his cavalier and distant attitude unnerved her, as if he hid something more horrible from her knowledge. It troubled her already besieged mind and filled her with dread. "Were there, were there _others…?"_

"You wish to have that talk now?"

She swallowed hard at his dry words.

"Tell me – _I must know!_" she demanded in frustration, slapping the bed by her side. Her voice rose a notch but she kept it low enough not to be heard from the sitting room. Even so, she glanced at the door. She believed Arabella would stay put, to wait up for Raoul, who could return to the suite at any time. But she doubted strongly that _he_ would enter this bedchamber to look in on her. He never once had entered her bedroom when she lived at The Grange, and she could not see him flouting his noble upbringing of propriety, even with all that had happened tonight.

Despite that knowledge, her tension did not ease.

Despite that knowledge, she must know more.

"How many men have you killed?" she forced the words out through a tight throat. "Before tonight and, and here - at the hotel."

"If you seek an actual number, I cannot give it to you." His words were grim, his manner cold and callous.

"Try," she insisted through clenched teeth.

He gave a curt nod. "As you wish, Madame. I would deem the tally to be two...perhaps three hundred. Perhaps more..."

At his offhand and indifferent reply, sickness twisted deep inside her belly. Her eyes widened until they felt dry and began to sting. Only then did she blink.

"I warned you earlier that you might not like what you uncover," he said more quietly.

She wished it all to be another sarcasm in retribution for her persistence to have him confess, but now, when she least wanted to hear such a truth, in his dark tone she heard nothing but sincerity.

"T-two or three _hundred...__?_" she whispered. _Or_ _more?_ The idea was impossible to grasp, too bizarre for comprehension, too horrifying to be believed.

Surely she _had_ fallen asleep on her cot in her dressing room, and this was only a frightful nightmare...it must be...

"I have no definitive way of knowing. But yes, easily I would tabulate the total to be in the hundreds, though certainly not as much as a thousand. I was not always present to know." He apologetically spread his hands wide in careless explanation. "In Persia, my services were considered a tribute to the ruler there. Odd, isn't it, how depending on the country, the viewpoint so greatly differs. The extermination of the degenerates and the outcasts is looked upon with favor in one kingdom and treated with abhorrence in another."

"_I – I don't understand_," she whispered fiercely, wishing he would not speak with such ridicule about something so terrible, but knowing him well enough to realize he used bitter sarcasm as a defense to cover his true feelings. In that respect, he had not changed.

"Allow me to clarify, my dear, and introduce myself as I was known in that kingdom," he said with a mock little bow. "The title by which men of that land once called me is The Mask of Death – I was highly feared as the assassin-magician for the Shah of Persia and lived in his palace. I made people...disappear."

She swallowed over the uncomfortable lump that was steadily growing in her throat. "Y-you were an executioner of – of _criminals,_" she stressed, desperately hoping he would agree, the stony set to his jaw telling her it was much worse than that.

"If you prefer to give it that name, but I daresay, not even a third of the victims were guilty."

"You killed innocents?" she whispered in disbelief, her words barely above a breath.

He waved a dismissive hand. "The Shah is a jealous ruler who demands a groveling sort of submission and loyalty. If a whisper came to him of even a hint of rebellion or a slur of dishonor against his name, the offender was hauled in, questioned without mercy, and sentenced to one of my deadly traps of magic. The Shah would soon grow bored with one and demand another. There were many I created, each more horrific than the last. He preferred slow torture to a quick death, you see. If an alleged miscreant went into hiding, their families were made to suffer for his crime. It did not matter to the Shah as long as he had his evening's entertainment and his pound of flesh."

His manner was detached but she heard the tightness enter his voice and saw a gleam of moisture sparkle in his eyes, causing her to think he was not as unaffected as he would have her believe.

"Why did you do it?" she implored, needing to know, though she was almost afraid to hear his answer. "Why would you become something so ..."

"Vile? Monstrous? Diabolical?" He looked right at her. "I told you I was an ogre and a beast, Christine, a true monster. From the very beginning, the very first day I brought you to my underground chambers, I have never lied to you in that regard. My face is only the outward mark of my affliction. The gypsies were correct – I am a curse to all who know me."

Tears stung her eyes, and she shook her head. "No, stop it! – _stop_ saying that…"

"You wanted the truth of the past, my dear."

"It's _not_ the truth. I refuse to believe that about you."

"You don't believe that I'm a murdering criminal when you have tonight's exhibition as proof of my skills?" he asked dryly, his tone incredulous. "However, I must apologize for the timing – Buquet led me on a merry chase through the flies. I had hoped to rid the theater of the mongrel while you were still changing in your dressing room, to spare you the need to witness the plummet to his death."

She shivered, both the chill of the room and the iciness of his words affecting her frenzied senses.

How could his voice still be so hauntingly beautiful, so rich and smooth as velvet, when he spoke so casually of something as malicious as destroying human life?

She had thoroughly disliked the stagehand as well as her cousin – had wished them both gone from her forever. But the destruction of life – of any life – was too harsh and painful for her to so heedlessly accept, no matter the reasons for it. Once a soul died, there could never be restitution. There could be no coming back from death. Whether it be a shriveled baby animal, in neglect and barely breathing, or an evil man who deserved imprisonment – she never wanted to see any living thing die! She never had!

And yet in light of his selfless intent to protect those who were vulnerable, she could easily excuse all of what happened and never speak of it again.

But _this!_ With his horrid traps he had killed _innocents_? Families! _Women? Children_…_?!_

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask, but she decided, for once, she could not bear to know.

"I don't believe that you're as uncaring as you seem to want me to believe," she whispered, needing it to be so. "I _cannot_ believe that about you. There _must_ be more to this than you're telling me..."

He gracefully shrugged. "I cannot help what you choose to accept or deny."

"Why, Erik?" Tears wet her eyes as she leaned toward him, with one hand pressed to the bed. "You were never so – so cold and heartless in England."

"My life ended in England." His tone grew icy and she visibly flinched, knowing she was the cause of his pain. "I became a living corpse, a heathen devil who ceased to care about all of humanity."

"That's not true! You helped the children. You _still_ help them. You tend to their needs. Shelter them. You – you _care_ _about them_. About Jacques, and...and Jolene."

His eyes fell shut against her words.

"I cannot begin to comprehend all of this..." It was all too horrible to know, too atrocious to be acknowledged - she did not _want_ to acknowledge any of it! She closed her eyes, the tears slipping down her cheeks. "We have long been separated and both of us have changed over the years, but there is still that intrinsic part of our nature, that which lies at the core of each of us…" She opened her eyes, looking into his. "My soul knows your own soul as well as it recognizes itself. And I _know_ there's more you're not telling me."

"You so badly want more, Christine?" he asked with heavy disdain, though he did not deny her claim. "Is the confession of my multitude of crimes against mankind not enough to provoke your eternal disgust? You truly do amaze me, my dear..."

She ignored his sardonic attempt to deter her and shook her head. "More – as in your _reason_ for doing what you did, in making those death traps. Were you forced into doing so?"

"You would like that, wouldn't you – to justify my actions and make them into something noble and proper and forgivable. To whitewash the past and find a way to excuse my villainous behavior, so as to make the beast into a prince." He shook his head in pity. "Sorry to disappoint you, my dear. You have mistaken me for the wrong storybook character. I will remind you again I am no more than the ogre in this tale..."

The sound of the door closing from the other room and Raoul's low voice greeting Arabella reached them. Christine turned her head to the door in alarm.

"Ah, and there's the noble prince now." His acidic whisper bit through her soul. "Will the frightened damsel call out for him to save her from the terrible murdering Phantom?"

"Stop it, _just stop it!_" She pressed her palms to her skull and angrily shook her head. "How can you say that to me? This is not one bit amusing!"

"I am deadly serious. What _will_ you do, Christine?"

What _could_ she do? She had no choice. In knowing that, she should speak, should tell him of the danger to herself and the cause – tell him that she was also wanted by the police and for murder. But the weight of his confession bore heavily upon her spirit, making it difficult to think. She could not bring that part of the past up, not yet, not after all this – nor was this the time. There was much to be said and no time to say all of it, what with Raoul standing just outside her unlocked door.

The realization made her panic.

"I cannot go back to the opera house tonight. Please, don't ask it of me. I-I need time. But you must leave now." She held her hands out to her sides, beseeching him. This is far too dangerous, Erik!"

"So you choose to stay here_...with him?_"

The Phantom spoke as he strode to the foot of the bed, his stance menacing as if he might suddenly swoop down and carry her away against her will. Christine instinctively drew back against the headboard, not out of fear but to prevent such an act.

"No, not _with_ him," she quickly stated.

"Then you _will_ come back with me?" he asked more gently.

"No- I only meant this is Arabella's chamber. I _cannot_ go back," she stressed, "Not yet. I just - oh, please don't ask it of me. I vow to you that I will return soon, but I -"

A gentle knock at the door startled them, causing them both to look that way and shattering whatever sliver of calm remained within her spirit.

"Christine, are you awake?" Raoul's voice came low from the other side of the wooden panel.

Christine looked at Erik in horror.

"Your lover awaits," he sneered softly, turning back to her.

"_You've_ been spying, you _know_ he's not my lover!" she insisted beneath her breath.

"_But_ _does_ **_he_**_?_"

His slow words, quiet and lethal, made her cringe.

"You have to go, Erik. Please- _please!_ I cannot bear it if he catches you here on top of everything else that has happened tonight."

"I could end this now..." he mused, "...and give the Vicomte a taste of my rope." His hand reached inside his cloak. "Perhaps I should, for stealing away my bride –"

She lunged across the bed to kneel where he stood at its edge. Grabbing his upper arm tightly, she wrapped both hands around hard muscle and brought him closer, her face inches from his. He stared at her in surprise, while invisible sparks of passion merged with barely contained rage and flew between them.

"_You_ _gave me __**your **__**word**_ once I married you that you _would_ **_never_** _harm either of them_," she quietly bit out through clenched teeth. "If you break that promise, I **_swear_** I will never forgive you, unto the day I draw my last breath and am buried in my grave – _and even beyond that!_"

Midnight dark eyes clashed with golden fire in a battle of wills, the intensity of their anger as strong as the blaze of want that so swiftly erupted between them. His hand went beneath her jaw, his gloved fingers lightly circling her neck, his palm against her throat, much as he touched her once before, months ago. Despite his earlier confessions, she did not once flinch in fear, her pulse pounding out an erratic beat against the smooth leather for an entirely different purpose.

"And do you remember **_your_**_ vow,_ to me, in return, _that you would have __**nothing**__ more to do with that insufferable boy…?_" His eyes scorched her, burning into her fixed ones, then dropped to sear her lips. "_How quickly you forget, wife ..._"

His mouth came down hard on hers while his other hand clutched her hair at the nape, imprisoning her in his hold. Christine gave a helpless little whimper, her attempt to retreat from his cruel affection weak and short-lived. The ever increasing need to know his touch and experience his embrace eclipsed all despair-invoking admissions of envy and murder, all of that horrid darkness fading away into unimportance as her desire for him grew. She did not once release her hold on his arm, and now grasped him to her more desperately.

The Phantom quietly growled and moved his hand to her back, tightening his hold around her. Her eager submission made the bitterness of her refusal to return with him even more difficult to bear.

He took her lips again in a brutal, plundering kiss designed to punish. But the sweet taste of her in his mouth and the manner in which her small hands roamed his body, so urgent in their quest to touch and know him, soon disarmed his jealous anger.

Lost in his Angel, the Phantom softened his lips against her lips, stroking the silken inner flesh with his tongue and nibbling at their fullness. Again she quietly whimpered, clutching his shoulders, then the back of his neck, her palms sliding lower. He tasted her tears as she pressed her warm body to his, her mouth opening wider to receive him completely, her tongue meeting and melding with his...

At the rap of a second knock, the Phantom came to his senses and remembered. At once he pulled away from the delectable temptation she presented, pushing her off her knees and back to the mattress. Breathing hard, she stared up at him in shocked distress, the loose sleeve of her borrowed bed gown pushed down from where he had bared her shoulder and the lush upper globe of one breast.

Barely reining in the dangerous desire to lunge on top of his wife and remind her fully to whom she belonged, the Phantom picked up his hat that she had knocked away in their passion. With a hand that slightly trembled, he set it back on his head.

"Think on that throughout the cold, empty night, Christine."

His parting words came harsh and hollow, displaying the extent of his emotions he could not begin to mask. He turned on his heel, his cloak swirling about him, and swiftly strode through the balcony doors.

Thoroughly shaken, Christine stared after him, speechless. She felt anxious that he was actually leaving and worried at the finality of his tone, but at the same time, the slim practical side of her nature that she yet possessed was relieved to see him go. She feared for his life, and that those who upheld the law would find and take him away from her again...

And with every nervous breath, the fuller and more passionate side of her spirit wished him back.

"_Erik, wait!_" she whispered hoarsely when at last she could think to speak, already missing his presence, though no more than scant seconds had passed.

She had no idea what to say, still overwhelmed by the entirety of his confession ... knew only that she did not wish to leave matters as conflicted as they were between them.

With a hasty glance at the bedroom door, grateful it remained closed and all stayed silent, she struggled up from the bed and rushed through the balcony doors that he'd left wide open. The sharp wind bit into her, chilling her to the bone as she stepped onto the terrace...

...which stood empty.

There was no sign of him anywhere.

Startled, she hurried to the banister and gripped it with both hands, looking down into the street.

But in the three stories of darkness below she could see no sign of her Phantom. It was as if he truly had vanished, a nocturnal creature, as he had told her, who had become one with the shadows of the night.

**xXx**


	60. Chapter 60

**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews (loved the letter to Santa! lol) - Merry Christmas my dear phriends! :)**

* * *

**Chapter LX**

.

Arabella sat at the table, her cup held frozen in her hand. She stared at Raoul where he stood before the mantelpiece across the room, his somber gaze on the fire he had just stoked to a merry blaze.

"You cannot be serious." Incredulous, she set down her morning beverage on its china saucer.

"I am only relating what I have learned," he said wearily.

"But that is _preposterous."_ She shook her head. "Surely you don't believe a word of what you just said."

"Whether I do or don't isn't the issue. I have decided this is the only manner by which Christine can remain safe –"

The door to Arabella's bedchamber opened, and the subject of their discussion emerged wearing her costume from the previous night beneath her long cloak. At her appearance, Raoul glanced at her then swiftly looked away, back into the fire. Arabella noted the lines of strain on her white face and the faded circles beneath her eyes. Though Christine had remained silent once Arabella had retired late in the night, Arabella sensed she had not been sleeping, and her appearance proved it.

"Did I hear my name mentioned?" Christine asked quietly.

Arabella glanced at Raoul, who continued to look into the fire, then regarded Christine with a tight smile. "Good morning. Please, come sit down and have a cup of this delicious _chocolat_." She poured some into a second cup. "I have developed quite a fondness for Paris's morning beverage and shall miss it whenever we do return to England."

Her words came taut and trite as she attempted to tighten the reins of conversation between her silent dour cousin and their quiet downhearted guest.

"I can stay for one cup," Christine said, "but I must be getting back soon. Rehearsals will start in little over an hour."

Arabella directed a sharp stare toward Raoul, one which this time he returned. Their silent interchange did not escape Christine's notice.

"That is, I assume rehearsals will proceed as planned today...?" Christine looked at Raoul for an answer.

He gave a short nod. "They will go on as planned. We managed to convince the public, namely the media, that Buquet's demise was an accident. However, there will be no performance tonight. The opera will again open to the public next weekend…"

"That is a relief," Christine said, releasing a long breath. "I think we could all do with the respite."

"You won't be going back."

She set down the steaming chocolate she had just sipped and stared at him in shock. "But – of course I'm going back. Surely the police are not still investigating, if they have decided last night was no more than an accident…"

"The inspector will return this afternoon. While the press was convinced of the absence of foul play, the police were not. Neither am I."

"Then they _are_ still investigating," Christine whispered, looking into her cup. "How much longer will it take?"

"Today. This entire week. I honestly have no idea." Raoul shook his head. "But of one matter I am certain – it is not safe for you to go back there at this time."

She sighed. "So that's that then."

"Not exactly."

"Oh, for God's sake, just tell her, Raoul."

At her quiet outburst, both Christine and Raoul looked at Arabella in surprise.

"Most of the problems that we are currently dealing with and have dealt with for years stem from secrecy and the fear or even the _refusal_ to speak when we should and put matters to right," Arabella explained with no little exasperation. "Let us desist from such foolish behavior once and for all. Say what you must, Raoul, and let us go from there."

Christine looked at her oddly, drawing her brows together in slight confusion at Arabella's forthright accusations, however true they were. But she did not question, instead again looking to Raoul for answers.

"There is something you have to tell me?" she urged.

He hesitated, glancing at Arabella as if displeased, then moved toward the table. Stopping in front of Christine he pulled something from inside his waistcoat, setting it down on the table before her. Arabella watched as what little color Christine still possessed drained from her face.

"Is that yours?" he asked quietly.

Christine picked up the narrow ribbon of black silk and looked at it in dread. She pulled at the ends of her tousled hair, bringing the ringlets against her neck in a nervous gesture.

"Does it matter?"

"One of the chorus girls mentioned that you wore one like it during rehearsal, around your neck, or is that the one you wore?" When she gave no answer, he continued, "I found that near Monsieur Buquet's body. I took it before the police could see it."

She looked up in shock. "Could you not get in trouble if someone saw you?"

"Do not concern yourself with the possibility, however unlikely. There was no one near at the time, I spoke to the girls afterward - but know this: I'll do anything I must to protect you." Arabella looked down at the table upon hearing his firm declaration. "You are like family to us, Christine. I will do what I must to protect _every_ _member_ of my family." At the grim determination in his voice, Arabella looked up, surprised to see that he was looking at her.

"You have always shown such kindness to me, even when I did nothing to deserve it," Christine sadly whispered. "While all I have done is cause you nothing but endless trouble." She sighed and shook her head. "There is no way to tell if it's my ribbon, Raoul. Other dancers wore them too, as part of their costumes."

He nodded distantly, staring hard at her. "Is there any reason you know of why that stagehand would have had it?"

She gave a vague shrug. "Why would I know anything like that? I imagine he could have had it for any number of reasons."

"That is not all I have to relate. He had bloody marks on his face as if he had been in an altercation with a woman and she scratched him."

She clasped her hands tightly in her lap. "That comes as little surprise. I – I heard that he spied on the chorus often and – and made himself known to the ladies. I'm sure there are many there who grew weary of his attentions." She rose to her feet. "If there is nothing else? I'm not hungry this morning, so if you'll excuse me ..."

"Christine, you must eat," Arabella urged. "There are these lovely croissants ..."

She shook her head. "Not now, perhaps later. I just would like to go back to your room and rest."

"Alright, I suppose. I do have something I need to discuss with you, but it will keep until later." Arabella could no longer carry the guilt and must at last confess to her friend that long ago day when she had joined forces with Raoul to keep Christine's gypsy from seeing her when she was ill, at The Grange.

Raoul looked as if he wished to say more but only shook his head. "That's all I need to know for now. Go and rest."

Christine nodded and returned to the bedchamber.

Arabella watched an expression of helpless frustration cross Raoul's features.

"She's hiding something, though damned if I know what it is or why she won't tell us."

Arabella gave a sharp laugh. "Truly, Raoul? You treat her as if this is an inquisition and she's on trial, then question why she distrusts you with any secrets she might have?"

"Better I do the questioning than the gendarmes! If only we could return to England, but I dare not risk it," he muttered.

"You believe there is that much danger for her here?"

"What I believe is that the Phantom is stalking Christine..."

"What?" Arabella let out the word in a nervous breath, looking at him in shock. "I seriously doubt that -"

"...And that the ghostly fiend is also behind the death of the stagehand," he continued emphatically, as if she'd not spoken. "But he will not get away with it. I'll see to that!"

Arabella blotted her lips with her napkin and rose to her feet, taking Raoul by surprise with the suddenness of her act.

"You are going somewhere?" he asked.

"I need to send a message to Lord Cavendish and cancel our luncheon appointment. In light of all that has happened, and with Christine staying with us, it doesn't seem suitable to keep it."

"You've been seeing a great deal of the Marquis this week."

"I should think you would be pleased. Is that not one of the duties that Uncle has appointed to you? To find me a wealthy and titled husband?" She moved forward and patted his cheek then walked away. "If all goes as well as it should, I expect Lord Cavendish will be contacting you in the near future to ask for my hand."

"Is that what you want, Arabella?" he asked quietly. "You wish _for_ _him_ to be your husband?"

She shrugged, refusing to show her true feelings. "Why not? He's as good as any."

"The man is likely three times your age and certainly old enough to be _your grandfather_!"

She turned with sardonic grace at his disparaging tone. "Does it truly matter? I'm not getting any younger, as you so considerately pointed out the night we left England, and let's face the facts, Raoul. If not for my dowry, my prospects would be slim. I am not what one would call becoming, I am wont to speak my mind and interfere where I should not, I despise being controlled, and I take sinful pleasure in dancing the ballet in an empty ballroom. Not exactly traits a nobleman looks for in a wife, but Lord Cavendish is also rather unconventional, and I believe he would be willing to overlook them. Especially if I can give him an heir so that his line does not die with him."

He flinched at her candid words. "You love him then?"

Her chin lifted, her features grave, a sad shine coming to her eyes and making them glimmer like precious silver.

"No, Raoul. I don't _know_ him well enough to love him. Nor do I think I ever shall. But love is never a significant issue in marriages for our kind, is it?"

She swept out of their suite, her head and shoulders held high.

He watched her go, clenching his jaw in provocation. Snatching up the ribbon of black silk he stared at it a long moment, then crumpled it in his hand and stalked to the hearth, throwing it onto the flames.

.

**xXx**

.

Time, in all its exasperating tenacity to cling viciously to each second before letting the next emerge, was progressing forward with the diligence of an apathetic sentry. It kept her bound to this luxurious prison, her soul and heart weeping in a state of frightful urgency for the freedom to do what her heart told her she must.

All she wished was to be elsewhere, in a cavern far beneath the earth. How odd, when she had always preferred the light and feared the shadows that masked the unknown. But without him near, the daylight was more frightening than the darkness, the days a darkness unto themselves, no matter how brightly the sun shone ...

... this was a darkness that shadowed the soul.

Christine stood at the French doors of what had become her most recent prison and stared avidly into the nighttime sky across the peaked rooftops at what little she could see of the Opera House. The Phantom had come to her once in the black of night ... perhaps he might do so again.

He had also come to her another time, as Erik, and she had never known it ... until two days ago, when a dark secret came to light, and it too, cast a pall of shadow upon her heart. Upon learning the truth of Arabella's foolish interference, she now despised the woman she had come to consider as close as a sister, refusing even to speak to her.

It was the third evening of her internment in the de Chagny hotel suite, and she felt frustrated that she had no ongoing knowledge of what was going on at the theater, and more specifically, with Erik.

The little the Vicomte would tell her failed to satisfy, and his cousin promised she would visit in the morning to discover what she could, likely in an attempt to rectify what harm she had caused. But **_nothing_** could undo the past. After having confessed in a few nervous sentences that she had lied to Christine that long ago day at The Grange - and Erik _had actually come_ to visit her while she'd been ill, but was ordered to leave and never return - Christine felt betrayed. Raoul, she could more easily forgive though she was furious with him as well – but he had never masked his ill feelings with regard to Erik. She had _confided_ in Arabella, thinking of her as a friend!

Arabella's pathetic defense of her vile act had been that she'd kept her silence to protect Christine, agreeing with Raoul at the time that Christine's gypsy was dangerous and could impede her recovery. Little did she know the course such deceit would take – that had Christine _but known_ Erik made a valiant attempt to see her – even coming to the front door of the manor to do so and demanding entrance – she would never have stayed those five weeks away from him at The Grange, and she and Erik never would have fought that last day together on The Summit ... But there was more - in her high fever, she had not dreamt his presence at all. He had been there that first night - risking capture to break into the bedroom where they took her, only leaving when he realized she could be better taken care of at The Grange until her recovery.

– At this moment, **_all these past four years_**, they could have been living a life together, creating their music, raising their children. Christine never would have suffered so harshly and Erik never would have gone to Persia and lost that part of himself she now felt so desperate to reclaim.

_Where was he now? Was he safe? Had they caught him?_

Christine felt impatient to learn what she needed to know and dashed away a tear with a hasty brush of her fingertips. She scowled at her impetuous curiosity, which lately more than ever had proven to be a curse. Her insistence to learn all of Erik's secrets had brought about his morbid confession. It was still inconceivable that such horrific words could possibly be true, that Erik, _her Erik_, was a murderer. Not once, as she was, or even accidentally, but many times over and with malice. _Countless_ times … **_he did not even know_ _the exact number!_** And yet, though she adamantly wished to disprove such a terrible revelation, the truth had been apparent in his indifferent stare and icy-calm words. The awful truth that reverberated on and on in her mind throughout the sleepless nights and trying days. The same truth he had told her after abducting her, that first time they had talked beneath the earth – indeed, he had never hidden that he was a murderer, even boasting of it as if it were something to be esteemed. Then, she had thought him only a stranger, the terrible Phantom of the Opera, and it had not affected her so much ...

But it had been no stranger - it had been _her Erik!_

_Dear God_, what had _happened_ to him?!

Christine hugged herself, rubbing her arms briskly, though the cold air she could sense through the closed panes was not the source of her sudden chill.

She had spent the majority of hours alone, barely slept, scarcely ate, stiffly refusing each of Arabella's quiet offers for company, in order to think through all of what occurred, to try to come to terms with what _should_ transpire compared to the inevitability of what must be.

And in the confusion of her mind's meanderings, one truth stood out with crystalline clarity:

Despite the horror of what Erik had become, her feelings for him had not altered one iota. She wanted him as much now as she did before receiving the bitter truth of his malevolent actions.

A woman with sense would walk in the opposite direction – no, she would run that way. But Christine clearly had no sense where Erik was concerned - he laid claim to a part of her soul that would forever be his - they had shared far too much in recent months, and too much history throughout all their years together. She had given him _everything_, and could cut him out of her life no more than she could cut out her own heart. The latter of which would surely cause the least amount of torment. In making her choice, she, too, would be guilty, in doing what she must to aid and shield him from all those who meant him harm - she was already guilty…

And her heart was torn from that realization, completely ripped asunder.

According to his harsh confession, three nights ago in this room, her childish folly of bygone years had led to the near complete emotional destruction of his character, and she hoped it wasn't too late to somehow piece together what shards remained. Though he had unfeelingly proclaimed his unthinkable deeds, in his beautiful golden eyes she had beheld a quiet sorrow, as if his soul masked his true feelings and he was not as indifferent as he acted – his smug revelations indeed all an act, played out on an invisible stage and performed to deceive her. The silent, harrowing years had caused great strain between them, but she could still see into his heart, which was not all black. And it was that inkling of humanity left that Christine desperately wished to nurture.

The task might very well cut her to the quick, the months he had held her below proof of that, but she could not give up her dream to be with Erik now. She _could not!_ She had not suffered all those years without him, thinking him dead, only to find him alive and again let him go. She would do what she must to protect his secrets and his whereabouts, even lie for him ...

Just as the Vicomte so often lied for her.

The reminder of Raoul's steadfast loyalty brought little comfort, when she presumed that she understood the reason he went to such great lengths to help her. And she feared that his feelings also had not changed.

Raoul told her yesterday that the police wished to question her, curious about her absence the night of the murder, and he informed them she had taken ill shortly before the opera's opening act, and could see no one. He had assured them she had nothing to do with the situation, even going as far as to say that Arabella had been with Christine the entire time. For the moment the authorities were appeased, but she wondered if that would last ...

A light knock at the door pulled her out of her solemn reflections.

"Christine? May I come in?"

She let out a quiet sigh to have her solitude interrupted and stepped away from the balcony doors. She had no wish to talk to anyone right now, but at the same time was anxious to hear any news he might bring, though found it odd that he would enter her bedchamber.

"The door is open," she replied.

She watched Raoul enter, bearing a cup and saucer in his hand.

"Arabella mentioned that you barely touched your meal again. I thought you might like a cup of this liquid chocolat my cousin is so fond of. If she had her way, this would replace every other beverage on the menu in Paris – likely in England as well."

Despite his lighthearted greeting, the tension between them remained as palpable as it had been when he brought her up to the de Chagny suite of rooms three nights ago.

By routine, she took the cup and saucer with a half smile she managed to force, held onto the china a moment, then set it down on a small table by the window.

"Have the police finished with their investigation? Did they find anything new?"

Christine asked the same question she did whenever he returned from visiting the opera house, and just as he had on each of those occasions, a mildly exasperated look crossed his face before he turned from her to answer, this time looking out the window.

"The gendarmes are taking their time, going over every inch of the theater. With the manner in which the rope was wound around Buquet's neck, they are sure it was murder, though of course the public still believes it was a clumsy accident, with Buquet getting caught in the ropes. I was finally able to convince the inspector that you know nothing with regard to the situation. They no longer seek to question you."

The news marginally brightened her outlook. "Then I shall be able to return to work soon?"

His smile disappeared. "I don't think that's wise."

"I don't see any reason to stay away any longer. And I certainly don't want the managers to come to prefer my understudy as the lead." Worse yet, for Carlotta to return and seize it.

"Don't see any reason?" he repeated in disbelief. "The fact that there is a murderer on the loose at the Opera House, and you very well could be in danger if you return has escaped your knowledge?"

"Raoul, I'm in no danger."

"In the immediate moment," he countered stubbornly. "And I intend to keep it that way."

His grim tone caused her to regard him warily. "What do you mean, you intend to keep it that way…?"

"I have considered the matter – you're not going back there again."

She gave an incredulous little laugh. "Of course I'm going back. Don't be silly."

"No, Christine, you're not."

At his obdurate stance, she shook her head in aggravation.

"But - what of the opera?"

"You did say they have an understudy. They will not unduly suffer when they reopen in four nights, once this unfortunate business is finally behind us."

Christine blinked, the harsh memory of her last lesson with her teacher in the chapel coming back to haunt her. Erik had been angry and distrustful of the Vicomte's motives, and Christine had actually defended him.

"I made an agreement, Raoul – I cannot go back on my word!"

"If you persist in this and act accordingly, then I will have no choice but to order your release from the opera."

Her eyes opened wide in hurt disbelief. "You can't do that …," she whispered. "You _know_ how important the opera has always been to me, ever since I was a child at my father's knee, listening to him play his violin and speak of his glory days at performances, while playing for kings and queens."

Seeing the stubborn set of his jaw did not alter, she hugged herself and turned, slowly walking back to the balcony doors. She dully stared out the glass into the dark night.

"It has long been my dream to sing on stage. I had lost everything that mattered to me, even a reason for continuing to exist, but I found hope again here in Paris, at the Opera. I rediscovered my dream – and now you wish _to deprive_ me of it, _to seize it from me again?!_"

Her thoughts went to Erik and how even in his plot for revenge against her, unmerited as it was and the reasons for which she still did not fully comprehend, he had brought her to embrace her hidden desires once more. Had stirred within the embers she thought long dead and again made her soul soar - with him, with their music ...

She _could not_ let Raoul do this to her and leave her with nothing again!

He came up behind her and clasped her upper arms below her shoulders. "I don't mean to upset you, Lotte, and I certainly have no wish to deprive you of anything - but someone has to look out for your welfare since you don't seem to care to do so."

She stiffened her spine at the old endearment that now seemed like a claim he tried to foist upon her – in keeping her a little girl in constant need of aid and supervision – and she turned in the narrow space allotted her between the window and her hopeful protector, who stood so close. Too close.

With a gentle but firm push of her hand, she forced him a step back.

"No, Raoul, that is not your place, and I am not your possession."

He winced at her frank reply. She did not wish to hurt him, despite how he always had stood between her and Erik as a barrier, in the past and in the present, both knowingly and unknowingly, but the words needed to be said.

"I appreciate all you've done for me, in helping me to flee England and putting your own reputation and safety at risk to do so, but this is where it ends. I would like to maintain our friendship, if it even can be salvaged after all that has happened, but not at the cost of sacrificing my dreams. And I ask that you reconsider your decision to discharge me when I return to the theater, for return I will. But no matter what you decide, I'll not stay in this hotel one more day than I must."

He regarded her as if he'd never seen her before then faintly shook his head.

"Christine, be reasonable, what will you do?"

She lifted her chin, determined to keep her resolve strong. "I have made friends at the Opera House. They will advise me. If you go through with your threat, then I will find other work in Paris, with the hope that one day in the future I will again take the stage and continue with my dreams."

"If it is only the singing that matters so much, there are other cities and opera houses. I could investigate into the matter ..."

"No, Raoul - this is _not_ your decision to make, and I will _not_ leave Paris. The city has become my home and here I will remain."

He shook his head in confusion.

"Christine, what has come over you?"

He could not know that she fought to stay close to The Phantom he was so sure would harm her, and he could certainly never learn the identity of her masked lover.

"I only want you to understand my feelings on the matter. You cannot order me to do your bidding like one of your servants or the staff here at the hotel. You don't have that kind of control over me. I know you have authority over what happens at the Opera House, but as its patron only."

"I don't think of you as a servant, Christine." He sounded wounded. "I never have."

"And I can be no more to you than a friend," she stressed gently. "Nothing has changed."

He did not look surprised or bothered by her words and Christine hoped that her earlier assessment was wrong and perhaps his heart had been pulled in another direction.

"A friend looks out for another's friend's best interest – that is the extent of what I am trying to do for you. I had great respect for your father and perhaps I do feel an ... inclination to watch out for you, having had two years' experience when you lived at The Grange and relied on us for everything. I care about your welfare, and it is difficult to so suddenly let go of that responsibility, since you have again sought us out for help, help I gladly give. But I was never trying to control you, Christine."

"Then you will reconsider terminating my employment at the Opera House upon my return?"

He blew out an exasperated breath and studied her determined features.

"It really means so much?"

"Yes. It is my lifelong dream, as I told you. My father also wanted this for me."

He narrowed his eyes in thought. "Perhaps we can come to some sort of arrangement, one that will allow you to fulfill your aspirations and give me peace of mind with regard to your safety."

Christine tilted her head suspiciously. "I'm listening."

"You may sing in the opera, without any interference from me, if you will agree to visit the Opera House only for practices and performances. You will not live there, but at the end of each work day you will return to the hotel. I am not convinced that you're in no danger there, and I do not wish you to spend one more night under that roof. Call it control if you wish, but I am concerned for your continued safety and as the sole patron in charge of the Opera House, I will not bend on this matter."

Exasperated with his persistence to believe her life to be in jeopardy, but realizing the nugget offered her was the most she would receive, at least for now, she knew when to concede. She was willing to agree to almost anything in order to return to the Opera House, and to Erik. Now that she had at last reached a resolution with regard to what must be done concerning their relationship, she had no desire to spend another day away from him.

"Very well, I agree."

"And you will be accompanied at all times by Arabella, Meg, or Madame Giry in attendance."

"Raoul - really!" She let out a frustrated breath. "That is too much. Besides, your cousin might have other plans. She's been busy of late, with her new gentleman friend."

His mouth turned down in a grimace. "I am certain that Arabella would be willing to change her plans if it meant the continuance of your safety."

Knowing it would be useless to point out again that she wasn't in any danger from the Phantom and never had been, she looked at Raoul closely, sensing his irritation was twofold and did not only concern her well being. The thought pleased her.

"She has been keeping time with Lord Cavendish a lot lately, hasn't she?"

"I hadn't really noticed."

By his evasive answer Christine was certain the opposite was true and he had noticed a great deal.

"Perhaps you should concentrate more on what's going on with Arabella and not be so concerned about me, when there is no need. Take her out to dinner and talk with her …"

"And if I were to follow your advice, would you slip away from these rooms once we left?"

She scowled. "Then _I_ _am_ no more than a prisoner here?"

"That sounds rather harsh. Think of these rooms as your sanctuary."

"A sanctuary is designed to bring a welcome feeling of peace. But I have not ceased to feel uneasy since I left the Opera House and that won't change until I return."

"I have told you my conditions."

"Yes, but think of it! I cannot possibly work well under such absurd conditions, if I am never to have a moment to myself. I'll surely go mad..."

How in the world was she to find and talk to Erik if she was constantly to be shadowed?

He chuckled, making light of her distress. "Christine, I believe that you're making too much of nothing. It won't be the difficulty you think it." He took hold of her shoulders and brought her slightly forward, bending down to kiss her forehead.

.

**xXx**

.

Concealed within the darkness at the front of a closed shop, the Phantom stood across the street from the hotel and stared in an agony of disbelief toward the third story where two silhouettes stood visible from the balcony of a bedchamber window. He had watched the Victome's cousin exit the hotel with an older gentleman and knew to whom those shadows belonged.

The taller shape stood near the shorter one, their heads moving close in a kiss.

The Phantom's heart felt bludgeoned as his hand closed hard around the rose with the note he had thought secretly to leave for Christine, and he threw it to the ground with a vicious snap of his hand.

He had foolishly shared with her the truth of his past crimes and frightened her into running back into the arms of her wretched Vicomte. Her continued absence from the theater should have been enough to convince him, but he had needed to witness the truth for himself.

If not for the gendarmes posted around the hotel, he would make another little visit to his runaway bride. Yet he could not risk capture a second time. There was too much at stake.

He had acted against character and tried to be selfless, to give her back to the daylight, but they had gone too far beyond ill-fitting noble gestures. She had repeatedly sought him in the shadows and he had at last heeded her call. After his dark confessions of murder, he may never gain her love as he wished but he would settle for intimate companionship, since it was more than he thought ever to know from her, and with the memory of their last kiss burning on his lips, she still seemed eager to experience it...

If not for the interfering Vicomte, who stood in the way.

The Phantom closed his eyes in determination. A storm was brewing, the moment to act most assuredly would come, and he had fostered an idea to hasten its arrival. He knew that having had a coveted taste of the stage and the gala and the music she had always so adored, she could not resist its allure now.

She would return; she had no choice -

The fire had been lit in her blood ...

He had planned and waited for more than a year to bring her to him. A week or more would hardly matter -

And she would forever be his.

xXx


	61. Chapter 61

**LXI**

**.**

Christine eagerly donned her cloak over the dress Arabella had brought her from Christine's belongings at the theater. At last the day had arrived for her return to the Opera House, and she was anxious to leave. While she waited for her self-assigned escorts to join her, a soft knock came at the door of the suite. Glancing to the closed bedchamber where the cousins had retreated to hold a private discussion, Christine warily approached the door and opened it a crack.

The maid Giselle stood in the dim corridor, a bucket of coal and a bucket of cinders clutched in her hands. "I have come to tend the fire, mademoiselle."

"Of course." Christine pulled the door open, allowing the girl entrance into the sitting room, then closed the door and returned to the table to wait.

Giselle approached her instead of moving to the hearth. Christine's curious attention went from the maid's bright blue eyes to her swollen bottom lip, the morning light coming from the window bringing her face into prominence.

"Are you alright?" she asked in concern. "Did you hurt yourself?"

The girl seemed flustered and pulled her bottom lip into her mouth, licking the small bead of blood away. "It is nothing. An accident, I was clumsy." She hesitated, her manner tense. "Your name is Christine, oui? You work at the opera?"

"Yes, that's right." Christine looked at her in smiling confusion.

"Then you know my friend Jolene?" she whispered, her eyes darting around the empty room as if afraid to be overheard. "She spoke of you."

At the name of her dogged rival, Christine's expression went grim. She had forced all thoughts of the lovely redhead hiding a great distance beneath the earth with her passionate husband far from her mind, and had no wish to recall it now. Seeing how the maid intently awaited her answer, Christine gave a curt nod.

"Yes, I know her."

"I've not seen her for days, we were to meet this week, but please, if you would tell her not to come. It is much too dangerous."

"Dangerous …?" Christine recalled all that Erik told her about Jolene. "She used to work here, didn't she? For her uncle?"

Giselle's face blanched, her eyes going wide. "You know about that?"

"Does her uncle still work here?"

"I must get back to my work. I have many hearths to tend." Giselle retreated and moved to kneel before the fireplace.

Christine followed, unwilling to let it go. "You did not answer my question, Giselle."

"Please, mademoiselle, I have no wish to get in trouble." She shoveled ashes into one bucket, her movements swift and deft from practice, then shoveled more coal into the open grate.

Christine watched the young maid as she started a fire. "May I assume by your silence that her uncle _does_ still work in this hotel?"

Giselle hesitated as if she did not wish to speak but gave a short nod. "He is the concierge," she all but whispered.

Christine remembered the short, awful man with the piercing black eyes. "And did he do that to your lip?" she asked gently, looking at the girl's injured mouth.

"No, it was a customer." Her eyes glistening in fear, Giselle cut off her explanation. "I- I was at fault." She grabbed her metal buckets and hurriedly stood to her feet. "I must go. Please tell Jolene what I have said. She will be at risk to come here again."

Before Christine could state that she no longer had contact with the little French maid, Jolene's friend hurried away and out of the suite, as if the fire had caught to the walls and raged throughout the room. Having also been the target of violent mistreatment, through her cousin, Christine stared after the browbeaten girl in sympathy, then returned to the table and picked up her costume wrapped in parcel paper and tied with string. She heard the door open behind her.

"Are you ready to leave?" Raoul did not look one bit pleased about the prospect.

Arabella walked in behind him and moved toward Christine. "I'll come to the theater this afternoon, to keep you company."

Christine aimed a terse nod in the direction of his cousin, disgusted that she must endure forced companionship at Raoul's unwarranted instruction. If she wasn't so upset with the woman she once called friend – due to Arabella's long ago interference in keeping Erik and Christine apart – she would not mind sharing that time together.

Christine looked at Raoul. "Shall we go?"

She did not miss the flash of hurt on Arabella's face at Christine's outright rudeness, but felt too angry to speak. If she did speak, she would surely say something to wound ten times fiercer than remaining distant, so silence really was the best option.

Outside the hotel, they barely made it to the waiting carriage before an elderly gentleman hailed the Vicomte. Raoul released an exasperated breath at the interruption and addressed Christine. "Lord Cavendish. It's important that I speak with him. This cannot wait - I'm sorry. I'll be only a moment."

He held out his hand to help her up into the closed carriage, but she shook her head, barely managing to mask her impatience.

"I'll wait."

The air was brisk, the day bright, and Christine wished to take a moment to enjoy it, knowing she would be confined inside the dark theater all day. Only during actual performances did the managers spare no expense in lamp oil and tapered wax candles, for the convenience of their guests. The rest of the time the theater used only enough light by which to see. Despite its dim surroundings and the chaotic life backstage, the strangeness of which still had not entirely worn away, the Opera House was exactly where Christine wished to be. To be one with the music and nearer to Erik …

While Raoul conversed with his friend, Christine's idle gaze wandered across the street to the pedestrians who strolled in front of the shops there. A tall, thin woman with a white poodle on a leash moved into view. Christine lifted her brow in wry amusement at the garish collar of jewels around the dog's fluffy white throat, and La Carlotta came to mind. She had worn a necklace somewhat similar to the pup's when Christine last saw her …

Her eyes drew casually downward ... and considerably widened. Her heart lurched to see an object at the edge of the stone paving over which the dog trotted. What appeared to be a flower … a rose, with what looked like a narrow ribbon of black wrapped around it and at the end of that, a piece of parchment … A note!

**_Erik_**_!_

Her breath escalated and she felt faint.

_Erik_ _had been there?!_ **_When? _**And **_why_** had he not come up to see her?! Yes, she had sent him away, telling him she needed more time. She had needed to absorb all of what happened, all of the horrors he'd so grimly told her, to try to determine what she must do. He had not been at all tolerant of the delay – leaving her with a heated kiss and words to remember that had stirred her longing throughout the past empty nights – but when had **_anything_** she said ever stopped him from doing as he wished?

She **_must_** see that note, must know what he wanted to tell her…

With no thought but to retrieve it, she stepped into the street.

"Christine!"

She felt her arm grabbed and turned to look at Raoul in surprise. He had hurried up beside her and regarded her with shock. A closed carriage rumbled swiftly past where she would have stepped.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked incredulously.

She blinked, for the first time realizing exactly what she had done, and hurried to think up a viable excuse for her rash behavior.

"I couldn't see the display in that window across the street and thought to take a closer look while I waited."

"You must be more careful," he chided. "The drivers don't always pay close attention, as you have just seen. This isn't the wilderness of the heath, Christine."

"Yes, yes of course." She glanced longingly toward the discarded rose, realizing that no possible way existed for her to retrieve the note without arousing his suspicion.

The note _had_ to be from her Phantom! The rose bore his signature black ribbon.

"Did you wish for some of those bon bons?" Raoul motioned toward the Candy Shoppe window.

She shook her head. "No – no thank you. I only wish to go to the theater. I will barely have enough time to get into costume and tie my hair back for rehearsal as it is." She forced her troubled gaze away from the street, lest her stalwart guard notice where her attention was so deeply fixed.

"I still don't like this …"

"But you won't prevent it," she reminded.

"No, I'll keep my word. But only if you hold to our agreement."

Not that she'd had any true choice, but she nodded in reluctance and he helped her into the carriage.

The entire drive to the Opera House, Raoul brooded in silence, something clearly upsetting him, which was fine with Christine who spent those fast-dwindling minutes attempting to figure out why Erik had not come up to her bedchamber to again make his presence known. He had arrived at the hotel with the rose and the note – surely for her…_Oh, what had that note said?_ And why had he disappeared without leaving the rose, as he had left the similar one in her dressing room what seemed ages ago? Instead, he had discarded it, dropping it carelessly to the ground.

A terrible thought invaded her harried introspection.

The spot where the rose lay faced the third-story room in which she resided. Raoul had visited her bedchamber in order to speak with her, something he seldom did in all the time she'd known him, and _never_ at the hotel. But surely, in those short few minutes, Erik could not have actually been there and seen them together?!

Inwardly she groaned, letting her eyes fall shut. With the dismal Fates that had been assigned to her existence, surely he had. It was all that made sense with regard to the carelessly abandoned rose.

Christine simply must seize the first opportunity available to find Erik, _somehow_, and explain that he had misconstrued all of what happened. _Again_. Not that her task would be simple by any means, not that he would even listen, as frustratingly stubborn as he could be – but she could be just as dogged in her pursuits to achieve the impossible.

x

At last they reached the welcome sight of the theater. Christine's eager relief to arrive at her dressing room dampened when Raoul appeared intent on accompanying her inside. She turned at the set of coral-colored doors painted with roses.

"Raoul, really! I need to change into costume, and you cannot be there when I do."

"We had an arrangement, Christine."

"I'll be just inside," she insisted. "Locked in and alone."

Though she hoped that would not be the case and her Phantom would come through the mirror and speak to her.

"You have disappeared from a locked dressing room once before," Raoul continued as if reading her mind, "and incidentally, you never told me how that was accomplished."

Chagrined that he would not relent on the mystery of her first months in Paris, when it had nothing whatsoever to do with him, she shrugged indifferently.

"With Madame's aid, it was not so difficult," she said evasively.

"But why keep it from the rest of the cast?"

"Must you bring this up again? My disappearance was achieved in secrecy to protect my identity, because I thought I saw someone from England who knew my father. I told you, Madame Giry and I both did. And all turned out well in the end. Besides, a little adventure can be exciting. Now, I really must dress …"

"Bon Jour, Christine!"

Never had Meg's cheery voice been more welcome.

"Meg, how wonderful to see you again!" Christine flashed her an exuberant smile, glad to see the girl was already in ballet costume. She grabbed her wrist and looked at Raoul. "Meg will stay with me, so you may go and do whatever it is you do here and no longer feel any obligation to watch over me."

Without giving him the opportunity to respond, Christine hustled her friend through the door and closed it behind them. Leaning her back against the smooth wood panel, she exhaled a loud sigh of relief, eliciting a giggle from Meg.

"Surely it's not so bad to be so carefully tended by _a_ _Vicomte_ …"

Christine groaned in contradiction. "I have felt like a china shepherdess, locked away out of sight and put up high beyond reach. Endless days of being inside that hotel suite until I thought I would tear out my hair and go mad! And that is not the worst of it – here, at the opera house, I'm to be accompanied wherever I go, never to be alone. _Can you_ _believe_ such nonsense!"

"It does seem extreme," Meg commiserated with a sympathetic glance. "Maman told me of the Vicomte's orders this morning. I'm to keep you company much of the time – I hope you don't mind."

"Do you?"

"Mind? No, not at all. I welcome the chance to know you better. I'd like it if we could become good friends."

"I'm glad it's you that will keep me company," Christine admitted with a smile, "and twice as relieved, since you know my secret. You can help me get a message to Erik."

"Erik?"

"The Phantom. I told you before…"

"Yes, I remember now." Meg tilted her head in reflection. "It still seems odd that he should have a name, though that statement sounds even more bizarre, I suppose. But for three years I've known him only as the Opera Ghost."

Christine wondered what the ballet dancer would say if she told her just how long _she_ had _truly_ known Erik.

Her gaze wandered to the looking glass. If she called out would he answer, with Meg in the room?

She laughed inwardly at the foolish notion. Surely he did not spend his days lurking behind the mirror door, and she had only entered the theater a few short minutes ago. His home lay far beneath the earth. Likely he was still unaware of her return…

Christine stared hard at her image, as if to see beyond the thick layer of glass.

If he _did_ know she was there, would he come to her? Her earlier sighting of his discarded rose seemed to suggest otherwise. Yet after her dark Angel moved heaven and earth to bring her to Paris and trap her under his shielding wings, surely he would not surrender so easily …

She shook her head at another thought, one far less hopeful. He thought she had betrayed him in ways she still did not fully understand, and he had surely seen Raoul with her in her bedchamber window. Damn it - Why was every moment of time stacked against them in some horrid, formidable wall that seemed insurmountable in allowing them a future together, as was always meant to be...?

"Christine …?" Meg reached over and touched her arm. "Where did you go?"

Christine blinked and tore her gaze away from the long mirror. "I … I should change into costume. I don't wish to be late on the first day of my return."

She hurried to the changing screen and slipped behind it, still leery of sharing too much with her new friend, especially on the heels of learning of Arabella's treachery. She just wasn't certain who she could fully trust anymore.

"I'm not sure what you think I can do," Meg softly called out. "I have no contact with the Phantom or any way to reach him. He hasn't shown his presence in the theater for weeks – well, except for that day in your dressing room..."

Meg giggled and Christine's face heated at the memory of the ballet dancer's interruption, and all of what followed.

"It is not unusual for him to be silent for months at a time. He usually only corresponds with his weekly notes - to Maman on matters of the Opera. She speaks with him at times but only when he wishes it," Meg continued. "She is his go-between."

"Yes, I know that ..." Christine struggled with the laces, donning her gypsy costume that had been hung there for the first act. "… And I know how to get a message to him. I'll need to do so while the other cast is busy elsewhere – perhaps at the midday meal. If the Vicomte has his way, as he always seems to, I'll likely be whisked back to the hotel directly after rehearsals are done."

"You mean to miss luncheon then?"

Christine noted the reluctance in Meg's voice. "Not all of it. My task shouldn't take long – but I can go alone, if you would rather. I know how to get there and can slip away without being seen …"

"The Vicomte made it clear to Maman that while you're at the theater, you're to be accompanied by myself or Maman or someone equally trusted. Everyone is still nervous from what happened with Monsieur Buquet, some more than others … do you think he did it? The Phantom, I mean." Meg lowered her voice so that Christine almost didn't hear her.

She inhaled a tight breath. She _knew_ he did it _and_ why, but out of a lifetime of loyalty mixed with no small amount of grievous guilt for her own foolish mistakes, Christine could tell no one the truth of what happened that night. She could not even allow Meg to stray down that path of her own accord, if she was able to curb the girl's curiosity.

"The Vicomte told me it was an accident. Monsieur Buquet had been drinking. It was all a horrible accident, but an accident is all it was," Christine stressed.

"I suppose …" Meg didn't sound so certain. "The gendarmes were here for _days_ with their endless questions. You are fortunate you were not here to suffer through that! Some of them were very rude and direct. You would have thought they assumed us all to be delinquents with no morals and worthy of imprisonment."

Christine shuddered at her words. "I suppose that is the silver lining in the dark cloud I have lived in this past week, that I wasn't here for any of that."

Her careless quip did not cover the tremble of dread in her tone, and she hoped Raoul was correct with his latest pronouncement that the policemen would not be back.

"Yes, well, Maman would be terribly angry if his orders were disobeyed," Meg said. "She seems to have eyes everywhere, as much as she always knows. I doubt there's a secret in this Opera House that Maman hasn't gotten wind of. So, yes, alright. I'll be late to luncheon this once and help you. Maman usually goes to her office, so she won't notice if I'm not there, and I doubt anyone would tell her of my absence since I'm sometimes late to rehearsals and other things." She took a deep breath. "So, what is your plan?"

"I wish to revisit Box Five."

"Box Five?" Meg repeated in surprise.

"I plan to leave a note for him there. I know where to hide it so he'll find it." She did not to go into detail.

"Oh. Well, I suppose. If anyone would be at the theater during luncheon, it will be the maids cleaning. But they'll be focused on their work and won't question what is none of their concern."

Exactly as Christine remembered during her short stint as one of the help.

Now she had only to dash off the note to arrange to meet with Erik and leave it in its secreted cubbyhole; everything was falling into place. But how was she to speak with him and alone if she was forever being guarded? She must have complete privacy with no risk of being overheard, to engage in the crucial talk long overdue them. Madame knew of their relationship, she had been present at Christine's wedding, as had Meg – so surely the ballet headmistress would thwart the Vicomte's confounded rules for at least one hour and award them _some_ seclusion?

"I should pop into the corridor and let Jammes know where I am, since I told her I would be right back," Meg said. "She's been so anxious since what happened, jumping at every little sound and worried if someone disappears for too long. Will _you_ be alright?"

"Of course." Christine shook her head at the absurd idea that she was in any danger. Buquet was dead. The police were gone. She no longer had anything to worry about.

"I'll be right outside the door," Meg said before it closed.

Christine didn't need any such reassurance and was thankful for even a few minutes alone. Well, _perhaps_ not entirely alone … maybe there would be no need for a note.

Hurriedly, she stepped from behind the dressing screen while continuing to fasten her skirt, and walked toward the tall mirror.

"Are you there?" she half whispered, doubting his presence but nonetheless hoping for it. "Erik, _are you there? _I must speak with you."

Her heart beat fast as she waited expectantly for the mirror to slide back on its track. It remained regrettably still, and she exhaled a quiet breath of disappointment.

"I suppose it was too much to hope for that you would be waiting. Oh well, never mind ..." She moved to the dressing table, to gather inkwell and parchment to dash off her note. "We'll talk soon enough."

Her self-made vow again bolstered her optimism, and the expression in her eyes as she studied herself in the vanity glass appeared calmly assured. Now that the shock of the stagehand's attack and all of Erik's dark revelations of murder had somewhat dissipated, and she'd had time to make her decision – a decision that never truly needed to be reached as much as realized – she felt confident that she and her Phantom could breach this new impasse, as they had after she had unmasked him and ended his agenda in disguise. And hopefully this time they could do so without further complications.

First, though, she had to find him. A task easier expressed than accomplished. But she had reached him before and could certainly do so again …

Her composure lasted as long as it took for the door to her dressing room to be thrown open with such force that it hit the papered wall. Christine whirled in shock to see a red-faced Carlotta bear down on her with all the finesse of an angry bull whose sights had landed on the matador waving a red cloth.

And Christine was the sole target for her wrath. Hastily she rose from her chair, to put herself on an even keel with her advancing trespasser.

"**_You leetle beetch!_**"

Carlotta brought her arm up and slapped Christine's face hard. Christine reeled a step back, stunned by the attack, and put a hand to her stinging cheek.

"You think to waltz back in here and steal my role and my Piangi? _You leetle slut!_"

"What are you talking about?" Christine took another step back, away from the outraged diva's curled fingers outstretched with their long, talon-like nails. "The role was _given_ to me, and I have absolutely _no interest_ in Señor Piangi!"

Christine doubted anything she could say would matter. Carlotta was obviously out for her blood and cared nothing for lucid explanations.

"What? You think you are too good for him?" Carlotta seethed. "You are _notheeng_. A sleeep of a chorus girl so horrible you _failed_ in your audition! You speend time with ze Vicomte behind closed doors and sleep in his hotel room. Did you share ze Phantom's bed to ween his favor also – and ze role zat should have been _mine?_"

Christine's face flushed, betraying the act but certainly not the cause, and a wave of icy calm washed over the heat of her rising temper. "_Yours?_ Ha! The role is _years_ too young for one of your _great_ _maturity_."

The diva's kohl-lined eyes widened at the intended slight. "_How **dare** you!_"

"I speak only what everyone here knows – and what **_you choose_** to overlook." Christine drew herself up, stiffening her spine. "I need to prepare for rehearsal now. You should leave," she said with as much authority as she could manage.

"No – **_you _**should be ze one zat leaves!" Carlotta raised her arm again. "**_You will take nuzzing of mine again!_**"

"I wouldn't try that a second time," Christine rapidly warned, taking another quick step back, her wary eyes on the erstwhile diva's outstretched hand.

"Phhtttt!" Carlotta hissed. "**_You_** will not tell me what to do – I will tell **_you_** what to do!"

Before the enraged woman could again strike, Christine took the upper hand - literally. Hauling back with her arm, she acted on impulse and punched the pampered woman square in her long, bent nose.

"Oh my…" The stunned exclamation came from the doorway, followed by a nervous giggle.

Meg's timing, as usual, was impeccable.

Carlotta covered her injured feature with both hands, her dark eyes horror-struck. "You broke my nothe!"

"I doubt it."

Christine had heard no betraying crack, and there was only a slight trickle of blood. A lifetime with her cruel cousin taught her to react in defense, and she had learned to bite, scratch, slap and pull hair through his bullying and brutish ways. But never had _she_ struck someone with her fist. She shook her hand gingerly, her knuckles throbbing, her fingers on fire –

– and never had she felt such satisfaction from engaging in so petty a scrap.

Christine felt no remorse. The great La Carlotta had needed taken down a peg after her supercilious and unwarranted attack. And after having been confined to the hotel for six tiresome days and enduring one after another of unimaginable disclosures, Christine was bound to explode after dealing with so many unresolved frustrations. Hell, she was entitled.

With her arms hanging down at her sides, Christine lifted her chin.

"Get out."

The shock of Christine's retaliation died in the displaced diva's eyes upon hearing her unruffled words.

With a howl of rage Carlotta lunged and grabbed hanks of Christine's hair. The impact of the stocky woman throwing her weight at Christine sent them both crashing to the rug. Christine painfully winced at the new bruises that were sure to form. She wrapped her fingers around Carlotta's thick throat, choking her to force her to loose her hold …

Loud, rapid thumps suddenly banged against the floor near their heads.

"_What is the meaning of this?!_" Madame Giry's irate voice broke through the red fog of Christine's defensive rage, though neither woman let go, and the ballet headmistress banged her cane on the floor again. "**Stop this - ****_at once!_**"

"Mia Cara!" Piangi cried as he came into view and pulled his mistress off Christine.

"Get your hands off me, you beeeg oaf!" the furious woman hissed, jerking from his grasp and turning on him. "You _deeespicable_ _whoremonger! _How could you betray me -_ with her?_"

"But I never –"

"**ENOUGH!"**

Madame's voice hit the air like cannon fire, stunning them all into silence.

"Señor, you and Madame Gudicelli will come to my office at once. Mademoiselle Grendahl, your presence is required on stage in _five minutes._ Meg, attend to her and _do not be late._ I will remind all of you that we have a rehearsal to perform and have lost much time and room for improvement, due to the delay of the gendarme's investigation. So cease behaving like unruly children - _and get to work immediately!_"

With that, she whirled away and out of the room.

Evading Piangi's touch to her arm, Carlotta glared at him then at Christine but did as told and also swept from the room, a groveling Piangi in her wake.

Meg approached Christine and held out a hand to help her stand. A swift appraisal reassured that her costume was intact and surprisingly not torn. Except for her coiffed ringlets now in wild disarray and a badly reddened cheek, there were no betraying marks that she had been in a scuffle.

"I don't know what happened or why she attacked you, but I fear you have made a dangerous enemy," Meg cautioned. "Carlotta thinks the entire world owes her homage. She doesn't easily forget anything she considers an insult."

With a careless shrug, Christine eased a hairbrush through her tangled curls. "I have dealt with far worse than La Carlotta," she said beneath her breath, more to herself than Meg. "What concerns me now is how to arrange a meeting with my elusive husband."

Somehow she had to avoid Raoul's efforts to contain and lock her away. She must let Erik know she was back to stay and _would_ speak with him …

Whether he wished it or not.

**xXx**

Five levels of stone beneath the floor of Christine's dressing room, the Phantom stood near his mini theater and critically surveyed his latest sketch for the costume he would need. He must go above, tonight, to tell Giry of his plan and make all the essential arrangements. Doubtless, she would not approve, but it failed to matter. She would aid him; she had little choice. The Vicomte may think he had triumphed, and temporarily he might have done so, by keeping Christine locked away. But his was a small victory. In a fortnight, the final card would be played …

And the Phantom held the winning hand.

He felt a tug on his shirt sleeve and glanced down near his elbow. Jacques looked up at him with soulful blue eyes. He held up one of his carved angels and Erik took it, looking from the boy's woebegone expression to the blank, smooth face of the carving he had fashioned for the child. Lightly he ran his thumb over the grain.

"I miss her too, lad," he whispered, grateful the boy could not hear him or see the movement of his lips. "But I vow to you, she'll be back. You can be sure of that." In a rare show of tenderness, he tousled the boy's hair, bringing his palm to the back of his head and drawing him close. Jacques hugged him tightly.

"Monsieur Phantom?"

He tensed at the apprehension in Jolene's tone and released the boy then turned to look at the maid. Since the night she had disrobed, offering herself to him, and he had told her the truth of his identity, circumstances between them had been strained.

"I have never heard you speak like that …" She clutched her hands before her, in her skirts. "Not the words, themselves, but the way you speak them."

The Phantom gave a short nod. "I have lived three years in France and one year in Persia, but almost the entirety of my life I spent in England." It had been necessary to masque his native accent in Christine's presence, keeping up the charade from the moment he arrived in Paris, so it would become commonplace to him. But the reason for subterfuge no longer existed now that she knew the truth of who he was.

"In England," she repeated in quiet defeat. "With her."

He did not respond, only waited impatiently for what more she would say.

"What you just said, after what she told me about – th-that is, surely she would not come back here? She has made her wishes known and always tried to escape before."

He narrowed his eyes in suspicion, taking a few steps toward her. "What are you saying?"

Jolene wrung her hands, averting her gaze to the lake. "I only meant – _we_ must live down here in hiding, we have no choice. But she can live above. Why should she wish to live in a cave underground? She doesn't belong here and doesn't want to. Can we not just keep things as they are, monsieur?"

"After what she told you about - _what?_" he insisted in a low voice, ignoring the rest of what she said. "Christine spoke to you? About me?"

Jolene hesitated then gave a slight nod. "Yes … _Yes_," she said more strongly, as if coming to a sudden decision. "When she was very ill, she cried out your name in her nightmare. I did not know you were Erik then …"

He winced, knowing he should not be surprised that Christine linked his name with horror, though that truth still hurt. And certainly any remorse she may feel for her misdeeds would lead to frightening dreams.

"Is that all she said about me?" he asked quietly, his gaze going to the calm, cold lake and the spot where Christine once threw his dagger. She had never been able to endure physical harm to anyone or anything – even to a Phantom ogre who'd made her his prisoner …

He snapped his attention to Jolene when the girl did not answer.

"_Is that all she said?_"

"I – no. Later, she spoke of Erik – of, of _you_ and …" she blinked fast and looked at the stones. "And regrets."

"Regrets …" he said through his teeth when she became silent.

"Oui. She regrets the past you both shared. The way she spoke, the things she said, she wishes it never happened, that – that you two would never have met … I am sorry, monsieur."

With each soft, tremulous word, the leaden ball inside his chest grew heavier.

Christine herself had said those words to Berta four long years ago; his would-be executioner had told them to his face before pulling the trigger a final time … upon his escape from Persia and return to England, he'd heard rumors bandied about the countryside, rumors he had later seen, of her close involvement with the highly esteemed damnable Vicomte.

How foolish that he had entertained the fragility of hope, that he had actually yearned for Jolene's admission of Christine's feelings to be favorable toward him.

How could the Phantom, no more than a monster and a villain, expect his former captive to think of him with anything but nightmares and regrets?

With a stiff nod toward the French maid, who stared at him in wariness of what he would do, he strode to his pipe organ, intending to lose himself to one of his darker arias.

He flipped through his latest score, his mind absent from the notes, his thoughts falling into the deep rut where they had churned for weeks.

He had achieved no success to return to his veneer of cold indifference; indeed it was impossible. Never once had Christine said she loved him - in or out of disguise, in the past or in the present - and he did not expect she ever would. The Phantom had experienced complete physical intimacy with others, without the heart being involved, and presumed that carnal desire was all she could ever feel for him, that truth in itself astounding … though he could not say the same about his feelings for her.

He had lived in a hell of emptiness once he carried her back to her dressing room after she ripped away his mask. Continually persuading himself that his love for her had died four years ago lacked substance, his heart calling him a liar. Trying to forget her existence had been impossible when memories of her filled every inch of his lair. To have seen and heard his little Angel calling out for him, in the garden, at the mirror, always begging to understand, had eroded his grim resolve, her pain becoming too much for him to bear. And he had crossed the gulf he'd sworn would always remain wide between them…

…again, foolishly becoming vulnerable to her feminine wiles.

Yes, he was a damned fool.

He should simply let her go, give her what she most wanted – a prosperous future with that wretched boy aristocrat – and never cross paths with her again. Except it was _not_ so simple. His tortured heart, finally demanding its way, had again shackled him to old feelings, feelings once renounced but now made stronger with their passionate union, what to him had become a silent exchange of vows. Christine might want nothing more to do with the coldhearted murderer he was, the title by which she now knew him, and likely she would hate him for all that would transpire in two weeks' time ...

Yet he was willing to endure her eternal abhorrence if only to have her with him again. She was his air and his breath and his existence. His muse and his life. Always, she had been. For years, while planning his cruel vendetta, he had soundly rejected that truth and attempted to disregard their past – but without her he truly was no more than a living corpse.

With his resolve iron-clad, the Phantom abandoned his music and went to his writing desk to prepare the notes to take above. It was time to set his plan in motion. The managers must be told to prepare for a gala event that would soon take place, on a night set aside for lovers …

The Phantom uncapped his inkwell, a smile twisting his lips at the irony.

* * *

**xXx**

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews! We are fast approaching the moment all of you have been waiting for…not sure if it will be next chapter or the next, but it's coming …  
**


	62. Chapter 62

**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews - a****nd welcome to my new followers! T****his story is far from over, but we are reaching a crucial turning point. I apologize that my stories tend to be overly long- but I'm glad many are still enjoying this and want more- with that said, enjoy this long chapter! :) - And so, without further ado, I give you...**

**Chapter LXII**

* * *

"Can you believe it?" Meg enthused as she accompanied Christine down the forgotten corridor to the chapel. "A Bal Masque on Saint Valentine's Day – night." Meg giggled. "Maman says the managers hope the gala will boost the morale of the company – and of course potential investors and other important people will be invited, as is always the case with these affairs … Everyone has been so upset – what with the fatal accident occurring during a performance. Many are on edge and worried something more will happen, though I doubt anything of magnitude will occur…"

Christine nodded vaguely, her mind on a different track, her heart hoping that something of great magnitude _would_ occur this evening, within the next minutes…

Early in the week she had left her note for Erik to meet with her – tonight. The dress rehearsal with the implemented changes had just concluded, and two hours remained before she was due on stage. Raoul had allowed her to remain at the Opera House the entire day, due to tonight's performance, though he did not revoke his tiresome command that she remain guarded.

According to Meg, both Madame and Erik used the secret compartment in Box Five on a regular basis to keep in touch with operatic matters. Christine was sure Erik must have found and read her note by now and barely kept herself in check not to run ahead, eager for the sight of him. She had been quite disappointed to return to the hotel that first night of her return to the opera and see no sign of his rose or note in the street, having hoped to secretly ask one of the hotel workers to retrieve it and bring it to her without Raoul's knowledge.

Tonight, Meg had agreed to wait outside the chapel, out of hearing, much to Christine's relief. But as they approached the corridor that led there, butterflies fluttered madly about in her midsection. He _must_ have found her note by now; she had scheduled the meeting six days after she left it in the hidden cubbyhole to ensure he would. He had not visited her since then – not once – but then, she'd never been left alone for him to take the opportunity.

"Have you decided on a costume?" Meg asked eagerly.

"What…?" Christine looked sideways at Meg. "Oh, for the ball."

"Of course for the ball, silly!" Meg giggled again then anxiously grabbed her shoulder. "You are coming?"

"I suppose. Since the managers require the full cast to be there, and the Vicomte's cousin is to come with her gentleman friend, I should think the Vicomte will allow it."

"I should think so! We have only a week to prepare, but thankfully there are hundreds of costumes at our fingertips and it will take no time at all to find one." Her tone light, Meg lifted her hand and snapped her thumb against her finger. "I shall go as a white swan, I think … and you, you should be a fairy princess!"

"A fairy princess?"

"Of course! What other costume better suits the fairytale of your existence with the Phantom? Secret notes, magical journeys beneath the earth to an enchanted existence with your masked lover – surely, he has fashioned your very own fairy tale, where you are the coveted princess of his kingdom …!"

_And I am the monstrous ogre,_ his words came back to haunt Christine. She did not correct Meg's dreamy assumptions of her life as his captive, letting the girl live within her romantic conclusions. Amid the torments, there _had been_ magical moments of bliss, especially during their last night together. And had he been honest with her from the start, when she confronted him with the truth of his identity, surely there would have been many more wonderful memories created.

Once they turned into the corridor leading to the chapel Christine clutched Meg's hand for support. "I have yearned for this moment for more than a fortnight. Now that the time is upon me, I fear it as well."

"Why? From what I interrupted weeks ago in your dressing room, he clearly adores you." Meg smiled in coy amusement.

"Does he?" Christine wished she could be so sure.

He still blamed her for failings, real and imagined, much of which she did not yet understand and was determined to learn within the next minutes …

"Trust me, mon ami – we Parisians recognize the art of love, and he appears to be a master craftsman."

Meg arched her eyebrows in insinuation, alleviating the tense moment and causing Christine to laugh, though her cheeks warmed with the memory of Erik's hands on her body and how apt the girl's words were.

"You are incorrigible," she said, shaking her head.

"So Maman frequently tells me."

They came to the entrance and descended the circular stairs. Christine's heart lurched a beat to see the glow of candlelight flicker in a far corner of the chamber. Meg squeezed her hand.

"Do you wish me to go inside with you?"

"I can manage from here." Christine gave a weak smile, attempting to smooth her unruly curls with an anxious hand, and entered the dimly lit room.

A man knelt before three tiers of candles. Christine caught her breath and took a few hurried steps forward, unable to rein in her excitement.

_"Erik…"_

As she drew close, she realized her mistake. The robed and hooded figure was too small in stature to be her elusive beloved, and disappointment slowed her movements. He had not come to meet her. She had so dearly wished it, but he had not come … unless he was hiding due to the stranger in the room?

Now wary, she wondered if she should turn and leave. This area of the opera house was supposed to be abandoned except for storage. Remembering her awful encounter in this forgotten wing – the attack on her person that led to her and Erik again being driven apart – she backed up, ready to flee.

The figure turned and pulled the cowled hood from his head. His short hair glowed silver and sparked a memory that stalled her retreat. He spoke, and she shook her head.

"I'm sorry, I don't know much French."

"I asked if you were in danger, my child," he explained in heavily accented English, and she realized where she had seen him.

"You're the priest who conducted the wedding ceremony for me and my husband! In the church, in the woods."

"Oui, I recall the night well. We were never introduced. I am Father Dominic." He began to stand to his feet, with no little difficulty. Her fear instantly evaporated and she approached, wrapping her hands around his arm to give aid. "Merci, my child. These knees are old and make kneeling difficult. If you would help me to the window seat?"

She did as asked then curiously took a seat beside him. "You know my language, but that night you spoke only in yours."

"I conduct all religious ceremonies in French and Latin. It is the custom."

Christine nodded but sensed her sly Phantom had told the priest to keep his tongue well guarded and speak only his native language, so that Christine would not understand the ceremony in order to question and learn the truth of Erik's cruel charade – should names have been uttered during the vows, as usually was the case. In the onslaught of fluid and rapid French she'd heard, Christine would have missed his name mentioned. Yet she did not express her suspicions to the priest, there being no point. Erik had lied, again and again; she had uncovered a number of his deceptions. She had no wish to be told of yet another deceit.

"You seem troubled, my child."

Christine briefly looked away to the tiers of candles nearest them, unsure how to respond. "I'm surprised to see a man of the cloth, here, at the Opera House. I would never have expected it."

The minister from her village denounced theatrical entertainment as immoral, more precisely the thespians who daily performed onstage. He would never step foot inside an opera house.

"I came because Madame Giry asked it of me," Father Dominic explained. "She is an old and dear friend, we knew one another as children, and she asked that I provide what comfort I could to those poor souls of the chorus who still suffer from the tragedy of weeks past."

Christine blinked in amazement, having difficulty imagining the stern ballet instructor as a small girl, much less the playmate of a boy who was now a priest! Madame kept her share of secrets and had brushed the whole ordeal with Carlotta under the carpet, advising Christine never to speak of it to anyone. Christine complied, relieved that Raoul also had no knowledge of the fracas that occurred. Meg told Christine that Carlotta had been issued a warning never to create havoc again, or she would be discharged. Christine almost hoped for the disturbance, wishing the theater was once and for all rid of the deposed diva. The haughty woman had _the nerve_ to call Christine a slut – when Carlotta herself was the mistress of a married man…

Recognizing the impropriety of such dark, hateful thoughts when in present company, she gathered her justifiable anger in a tight bundle and attempted to calm herself.

"Such conflict and sadness clouds your eyes," Father Dominic observed gently. When she remained silent, he urged, "Do you wish me to hear your confession?"

"Confession?" Surprised, she looked about the room empty of all but candles.

"Oui. A confessional stands next door, put there at a time when this chapel was in frequent habitation."

Christine had learned that the vast Opera House was a world unto itself. It should not surprise her that a confessional was located inside, since the chapel also existed.

"I'm sorry … I cannot speak of what happened." Even to a priest she could not reveal Erik's secrets.

The last time she had gone to confession was shortly after Papa died. Recalling his strong faith, she reasoned that it might alleviate some of the heaviness burdening her soul if she admitted her own guilt to a man of God who could then give her absolution. He even reminded her of Papa, with the kind way he spoke, making his faith a quality to be coveted rather than a crutch to be reviled.

"If you do not wish to speak, that is your choice. But be assured that anything you tell me outside of the confessional will also go no further than these sacred walls."

"Anything …?"

He nodded, but still she hesitated.

"Perhaps you fear your husband and the events that took place in this Opera House over a fortnight ago?" he asked, laying his hand over hers that she held clasped in her lap.

She looked at him in surprised dismay. "I – I'm not sure what you mean…"

"I hear many things. Some are truths, some are lies; it is not always easy to tell. I condone no form of gossip, and I laugh at the absurdities of a living ghost – however, I must know this, my child: are you in danger?"

"No." At the repeat of his greeting, she shook her head more forcefully. "No_, _Father_._ No matter what he's done or what he's accused of doing, my husband would never harm me. He has _protected_ me on numerous occasions, even saved my life. I do not fear Erik – I fear _for_ him. I _love_ him…"

No longer evasive, she wished only to defend her dark Angel.

"Yet you choose to live separately from the man you claim to love and to whom you are wed?" His tone remained peaceful, though he looked at her in grave question.

Even now, speaking in confidence with a priest she felt she could trust, her loyalty would not allow her to reveal the truth of Erik's dark deeds. His confession was not hers to share, but his own to relate if he ever chose to do so.

Christine released a tense sigh of frustration, again shaking her head. "It is complicated."

First, Erik had chosen to keep distance, for whatever reason, then she had, but only for a time. What little she tried in order to breach the lengthy impasse had failed, but perhaps this man of God _could_ help …

"No one else can know …" she began in a whisper.

He nodded in reassurance. "No one else will."

With no wish to betray Erik, Christine spoke only of their childhood together and the misunderstanding that broke them apart. Briefly she told of killing her cousin in self defense, without admitting she was a fugitive, then revealed a scant portion of what happened between her and Erik in past months, without revealing the Phantom's scheme for vengeance against others.

"I feel so lost without him, now that I know he's truly alive," she finished sadly. "And I don't understand why he's still so angry with me or exactly what I did to make him feel betrayed. Surely those foolish things I spoke to my nursemaid could not have fostered such resentment?"

"Do not be so quick to believe that, child. Words spoken in cruelty are sharp and can wound viciously, the scars never healed. I have known families torn apart for years, due to the folly of rash words that never should have been uttered. What your husband did was wicked, make no mistake. Vengeance belongs to the Almighty and is a dangerous weapon in the hands of mortal men. You must be cautious that you do not fall into the same trap, for a trap is all it can be. And you must abstain from being prideful; it is often the bait that sets the trap."

"I will," she agreed, cursing her spurned pride that had led her into such a horrid mess of wasted years. "I'll try. I promise. But Father, please believe me when I say that Erik _never_ _once_ hurt me and _never_ would. His type of reprisal toward me wasn't _dangerous_. It was more a – a war of feelings – but he saw to my constant care, always."

Father Dominic nodded pensively. "Then I have no recourse but to instruct that you return to your husband. The Holy Scriptures state that a man and his wife should not be separated, nor should any man part them."

"If only it were so simple, Father!" She sighed in frustration, though his quiet admonition cheered her that her tumultuous union with Erik still had approval from this man of God who sanctioned it. "I have tried to reach out to him again and again. But I fear yet another misunderstanding has torn us apart – this time quite possibly forever! I think he saw and believed something that wasn't true. I have yet to speak with him or hear from him to explain."

He squeezed her hand in reassurance. "Do all you can to mend these differences between you. Only then will you find peace. Your task may prove difficult, but if you do not surrender your resolve, you will be rewarded. I will not cease to offer up my petitions for both of you."

"Thank you, Father Dominic. It's strange but in speaking with you, like this, I feel I have been absolved." She spoke hopefully, her heart lighter.

He raised his eyebrows in amusement. "The manner is most unorthodox, my superiors would be mortified that I abstained from tradition," he chuckled, "but I believe a pure confession of the soul does not have to be spoken in the secrecy of a confessional to be acceptable to our Lord. The penance you suffered these long years far outweighs any multitude of Hail Marys and Our Fathers I could assign you to recite, though I strongly advise you to continue in your prayers – and do not waver in your course once you have set upon it."

"No, I won't give up." She smiled in relief. "Your words inspire me. You remind me of my Papa. He died when I was a child."

"Ah yes." He nodded once. "Gustave Daae. He was a talented violinist."

"You heard him play?" She wasn't shocked that he knew her maiden name, thinking Erik must have told it to the priest before they were wed, only that he knew her father.

"Madame Giry spoke of him. He played in the orchestra here over three decades ago, when he was a beginning musician. It was she who knew him." The priest motioned to the three tiers of candles in the far corner of the room, a duplicate of the ones nearest them where she had knelt weeks before. "I think you will be interested to see what is there. But now, I must leave you." He stood to his feet.

Christine tore her curious gaze away from the candles, wondering why Madame never spoke of knowing Papa. "Forgive me for taking so much of your time."

"There is no need for pardon, child; I was exactly where I needed to be." He smiled and nodded in farewell before leaving her alone to her thoughts.

Christine walked to the area where the kind priest had knelt. Small medallions of portraits the size of her palm hung below each of the three tiers of candles. She had noticed them in the past, when she took lessons from her teacher, on both sets of tiers, but never took the time to study the images. On the bottom tier, she inhaled a swift breath to see the face of her dear Papa, with his name engraved below – a much younger version than she had known. And his dark gentle eyes were just as lively as she remembered them.

She fingered the oval frame with a wistful smile. She should have known. Papa told her that he performed all over Europe, so it should come as no surprise that he once worked in the same theater she now did. Seeing the medallion made her feel close to him again, encouraging her – as if a sign from above that all would be well.

She knew better than to trust in omens, and had long ago dispensed with superstitions, but decided this once to cling to old dreams.

With the priest having departed, Christine waited as long as she dared, hoping her Phantom would come out of hiding …

But he never appeared.

Discouraged, but not without all hope, she bent to kiss Papa's small portrait then hurried from the chamber to join Meg.

.

**xXx**

.

With a frown of concentration, the Phantom put the finishing touches to his costume mask, applying a thin coat of lacquer to the molded plaster.

He had caged all fickle hope, forcing it to surrender to his control ... but as always, it had turned the tables on him and seeped through the bars of his grave resolve, leaving him fettered in manacles of suspicion.

Almost a fortnight had passed since Christine's return to the theater.

He had gone above to hear her sing at each performance, three times, and twice that number had spied her through the looking glass – always smiling, always in the company of others. He had waited and schemed, with only a few loose threads to tie before his imminent return. For now, he would refrain from giving in to the frustrating and constant desire to be with her, since clearly she did not share the same aspiration, but more than that –

He wanted no interference.

"Monsieur Erik?"

He tensed to hear his true name spoken from the girl's lips, the first time the maid had used the familiar form of address since she had learned his identity. Turning, he frowned down the stone stairs at her. Jolene stood at the foot of the opposite staircase that led up to the bedchamber and regarded him with nervous expectation.

He decided to ignore her brashness this once. "You wish to speak with me?"

"Oui. I will soon make supper and wish to know if you will be here to eat it, or if I should put some aside for you."

The thought of food held no appeal when his nerves were so strained. "Feed Jacques. Do not concern yourself with me."

"Then you are going above, to hear her sing again?"

"Of course. She is the epitome of all I once dreamed, the perfect instrument for my music. Hearing her sing my arias has been the purest light in the darkness of my emptiness."

"It doesn't have to be like that. Your life doesn't need to be empty."

He gave no heed to her hopeful remark and returned to his task.

"You still plan to bring her back?"

Carefully he applied the last of the lacquer to cover his mask. "What is it to you?"

"I told you what she said," the girl insisted. "She will only try to escape again and make all of us miserable and you angry. Can you not just leave things as they are?"

He recalled Jolene's admission from the previous week, of Christine's regrets, did not doubt the veracity of her words since they mirrored all of what he also heard Christine say about her feelings for him. But he was not such a blind fool to realize what motive spurred the little maid's futile attempts to keep him from his objective.

It was time to put a stop to this. Even if the consequence of doing so tore through his soul.

"Why have you never asked what lies beneath my mask?" he asked quietly, setting down his tapered brush.

"What -what do you mean?" she gasped, taken off guard.

"Exactly what I said."

"The night I first came here," she began after a short hesitation, "I- I touched it when we, when I shared your bed, and – and you slapped my hand away. You grabbed my wrist and held it to the mattress, warning me never to touch it again. I swore I wouldn't, and then you kissed me …."

His eyes fell shut at her soft, eager reference to the dreadful night he swore to forget.

"Never, in the near three years since you've been here, have you once _asked_."

"I- I was afraid to."

"Afraid, yes, that I can believe. Afraid of what I would_ tell you_." He turned in his chair to look at her. "In your mind, ever since that night I brought you and your brother to my lair, you have built me up into some quintessence of desirability. But I am no masked hero like in those foolish tales of romance silly girls fill their minds with. I am a villain, but more than that I am a _monster_."

"I don't – you don't need to tell me…"

"You have never asked," he repeated, "but I _will_ tell you." He said the words in disgust and slowly stood to his feet to tower above where she stood at the bottom of the landing. "It is time you know the horrible secret of the beast that dwells with you below the earth."

"No, please, monsieur…" she took a step back, taking her up the first stair of the opposite staircase and matching the step he took forward as he descended to the next stair from his.

"Beyond this mask lies a nightmare, the visage of which instills horror in the most daring of souls. Something so revolting that once the mind is seared with the image it can never be scoured from the memory. It can never forget."

"Please …" She brought her fingers up to cover her mouth, tears shining in her blue eyes. "No more…"

"Twisted. Deformed. A blight upon the earth. The face I was born with strikes fear into the meek and pure of heart and disgust into all other mortals." His voice came in bleak monotone. Stark emotion clenched the muscles of his throat, as echoes of cruel voices from the past taunted, his words a mirror to their reality.

He slowly resumed his descent down the staircase.

"But my curse was not enough, no …" He laughed darkly. "In Persia, when first they found me beside the body of a man they presumed I had killed, they bound me in chains in the palace dungeon. Torture is an art to them. Sharp gravel was my bed, pressing into already scarred flesh. Shards of heated metal were used to cut and burn what already was a matter of revulsion. They were intrigued as much as they were revolted and sought diverse methods to torment …"

Before he had regained enough strength to use his knowledge of magic against them, frightening the shah's jailers into thinking he was a god, they broke him in body, a match to the heart Christine had severed. But they were unable to break his spirit, empowered by his mounting hatred and lust for revenge. It had been all that kept him alive.

"There – there was a-a-a man my uncle forced me to-to cater to," Jolene said, her voice trembling violently. "He had a peg leg h-he made me remove –"

"I don't think you understand," he waved a careless hand, cutting her off brutally in his persistence to force her to acknowledge the truth.

Taking the last steps down he swallowed hard, unable to quench the dread for what he knew would follow. He approached, lifting his hands to the black leather covering.

She stared with wide eyes, barely breathing. Bracing her hand against the wall, she backed up another nervous step, inadvertently putting her on a level with his face.

"The time has come for you to witness the curse of the beast," he said -

...and pulled away his mask.

The blood drained from Jolene's features, every freckle coming into prominence. Her horrified eyes grew impossibly wider. She choked, as if unable to restrain the bile that surely filled her throat. Stumbling back, tears streamed down her snow-white cheeks and she slowly shook her head, trying to deny what she could no longer pretend untrue. With a harsh sob, she whirled and fled up the steps and through the bedchamber.

"Yes, run little maid. Run far and fast from the creature who will now forever haunt your mind," he whispered shakily. "The curse of this face you can never escape."

Emotion surged through him in heated torrents of rage and sorrow and hopelessness. His legs suddenly weak, he pressed his palm to the cave wall. No matter that he expected her reaction, it did not fail to rip new furrows of the old pain and rejection through his soul.

Why? _Why could he not have been made like other men?_

Without any real thought to where he was going, the Phantom quit the main lake chamber, moving through the dank corridor until he staggered into what was once Christine's cell of confinement disguised as a bedroom. It was the first time he allowed himself to enter since he had returned her above – his feelings then too raw though they were no better now – and he stared in grim acknowledgement to find the room just as she'd left it.

The small pocket watch he had used as an excuse to see her once more sat on the vanity table next to the silver hairbrush still tangled with strands of her hair. The shift he'd torn from her body in passion lay discarded on the ground in a forgotten puddle of white silk. The bed stood untouched by the maid's hand, the blue velvet coverlet in wild disarray and bunched around pillows, a testimony to remind him of what had taken place there between himself and his bride.

A monster did not deserve a maiden. In no tale was it so. She may want nothing more to do with him after his confession of innumerable slayings – _but by God, he ached for her and could not live without her in his life again!_

Swallowing hard over the pain, he looked around the abandoned room that still held a hint of her sweet rose scent. He had abducted, manipulated, and seduced his deceptive little Angel, forcing her to become his bride – and in threatening to take the fool boy's life, she had at last relented to his demand, offering herself as a sacrifice to the beast.

Falling prey to disgust and self loathing he questioned if his new plan was doomed to failure before it could commence. Could a woman so beautiful truly wish to be chained to a demon so ugly? To make her home here, in the depths of this icy hell? Did a monster deserve any morsel of happiness?

His tortured eyes found his image in the mirror. He flinched in abhorrence at the grisly sight that looked back at him, a truth he could never escape no matter how hard he wished it. She could never love _this_ – this excuse for a man, no more than a beast and a devil in gentleman's disguise…

"**NOOO!**"

With a cry of wounded rage, he picked up the faceless wooden angel he had crafted and threw it hard at the mirror, shattering the cruel beacon of glass that revealed his most excruciating torment. The mask only _covered_ what could never be erased. For a time in wearing it, he had tricked himself to forget that truth, the truth of why no woman could ever truly love him. And _she_ was the only woman he wanted, the only woman that mattered …

He was a fool to yearn for what could never be. Was it any wonder that she preferred the company of the handsome bloody storybook prince of a Vicomte, night after infernal night?

Sobbing, the Phantom swept the vanity table free of its trinkets then picked up the chair and slammed it against the cave wall, breaking it in two. He ripped the bedding from the princess bed, tearing it from the high mattress – the sight of the sheet stained with her virgin blood condemning him as the beast he was and putting an instant halt to his fit of outraged despair.

Scalding tears burned his eyes as once more he was faced with the terrible wrong he had done to her. His plan of revenge against Christine had all been built on the lies he'd been told and believed for years; and in that mire of falsehood, he, the monster, had unjustly ripped her innocence away. The shield of matrimony was a poor excuse for sullying the purity of an angel.

Shaking from a multitude of emotions that rushed through his veins like lava then ice, striking him hot then cold, he dropped to his knees on the ground and lowered his accursed face to the sanctity of her bed. With his arms outstretched, he clutched the covers on both sides, giving vent to his sorrow and self hatred, unable to stem the onslaught of angry tears…

His fingers brushed against something silken, unlike the bedding, and instinctively he gathered the material into his palm and opened bleary eyes to see. His mind did not at first grasp what the object was and then his focus cleared ...

In stunned recognition he stared at the aged scrap of black silk, torn and stained with his blood, that he held in his hand.

.

**xXx**

.

Christine took in a deep breath to calm herself and crossed her arms over her chest. Tapping her fingers above her elbow, she rolled her eyes to the high rafters, wondering if _he_ stood there watching …

"I never noticed before, but it really is uncanny how your mannerisms are just like Aminta's," Meg quietly pointed out as they stood in the stage wing and waited for their cues.

"Yes, uncanny." Christine managed a smile, though inside she scowled to recognize another of the Phantom's little deceptions – now that she knew who he was. Nothing could convince her that Erik had not written the horrid, faithless Aminta into a duplicate of Christine, and he considered himself the betrayed, passionate Don Juan. She suppressed a little snort of disgust when she recalled how arrogantly he convinced her that those mannerisms were common and her suspicions lived only in her mind.

One entire week had elapsed since her talk with Father Dominic, and each day increased her frustration when Erik made no attempt to see her. She had again engineered a way to sneak up to Box Five, where she found the secret compartment empty, her letter missing.

So he _had_ seen it and read it and _still_ chose to remain absent.

The fiend.

Hurt uncertainty waged a war with angry frustration and troubled her soul. At the next turn a strange sort of desperation laced with the fear that she would lose everything overwhelmed her heart.

What excuse did he have for not coming to her _this time?_ Did he mean to hide for interminable days and nights and remain in his shadows of silence to punish her? She would rather be trussed and thrown into a dark pit before she would ever again allow that to happen!

A rush of nervousness for what she was about to do made her tremble. She had thought long and hard on the matter of his absence, her discussion with the good Father Dominic influencing her decision, and she would not surrender. Since her Ghost of a husband refused to make an appearance to see her –

She had no choice but to force his hand.

Christine fought off the icy terror that threatened to freeze her to the spot, and at her cue walked onstage with a basket of roses, in this prelude to the final scene.

In the story, Aminta pretended to be an innocent, capturing Don Juan's fancy to lure and entrap him, so as to help the handsome merchant, whose naive young sister had been a victim of Don Juan's and took her life when he left her, as he left all women with whom he dallied. The merchant promised Aminta great riches if she would help him gain revenge. Don Juan had learned of Aminta's close liaison with the merchant in the previous act, and his vengeful plan to bed and defile her, shaming her as an outcast to her tribe, was a constant and dismal struggle, due to his having fallen in love with the beautiful gypsy, an emotion foreign to him. In the final scene, they came to the bridge where they met, each intent on following through with dark plans, hers – to lure Don Juan to the middle of the bridge, sawed earlier by the merchant to weaken it. But Don Juan prevented her from leaving, holding her trapped against him and giving into his heart. With his last words, he vowed his love and wish for eternity together. She also experienced a change of heart to aid the merchant but too late – as the bridge cracked beneath them and they clung to one another, falling to their deaths.

Christine scoffed. Aminta had expressed no iota of love at any time during the play to make her change of heart believable in the finale. Christine had closely studied the libretto and learned the choreography she'd been taught in all gestures used, showing Aminta as a heartless, vindictive woman, duplicitous in every word and action. But she had come up with a _different_ way to express her character, while still matching the lyrics. A more sympathetic way that was sure to gain the approval of the audience – but more importantly, the complete attention of her Phantom.

God help her.

A tingle of fear shot down her spine upon imagining his outrage when he finally came to her, but she would do anything – _anything_ she must to achieve that goal. And with Father Dominic's blessing, she felt twice vindicated to pursue this course.

She and Piangi, in the role of Don Juan, sang the first refrain of the Point of No Return, before moving into another aria.

Instead of showing shy interest to his face and the indifference Aminta displayed when her or Don Juan's back was turned, as in previous performances, she made a few alterations …

"The moon casts no light, cease to turn from what must be … darling, come to me," Piangi sang, lifting his hand to beckon her to his side.

"Together, you and I, in this life most bizarre," she sang with a wistful smile, "You across the sea, and I near its shore. We two, the keepers of this mystery…" She approached, her hand held out as if to take his, and he looked at her in confusion when she did not remain in her blocked position. "Who can reason the course of what must be?"

Suddenly she dropped her hand away and turned from him – not showing tedium as in former operas, but instead bowing her head in sad regret.

"Will you not come to me?" Piangi sounded uncertain, clearly taken aback by her unexpected change to the choreography. She lifted her lashes to peer into the wings. The chorus who stood there stared at her, their mouths parted in shock.

"Make haste, my love! Speak of what I long to hear," Piangi sang with a robust burst of life, his performance renewed.

"You have but to turn the key ... and bare all secrets to the stars," Christine sang in reply, turning to him with longing. "Watch them fall, and let us bleed no more…"

He stumbled back a step, staring at her as if she'd grown two heads, as she again unexpectedly approached. With her eyes she tried to tell him to keep calm, continue with the song, and assist her with her plan. She lifted her hand to cup his face, noting his eyes go comically wide at the unscripted gesture.

"Together – should we die? So that forever we might live…" she sang softly, sadly, putting her heart into words and hoping to make the audience believe Aminta's struggle with his passionate avowals, her harrowing guilt, and the realization of her love – yes, _love_ for Don Juan. As she sang and expressed her heart, her thoughts remained with the true hidden audience of one whom she sang for, and of all they had been denied. True tears glazed her eyes.

"Do not turn astray," Piangi sang, a new hoarseness to his tone, as she again turned and took a step away in indecision – "Abandon what we were taught…"

They moved toward the dual stairs that flanked the bridge, one set of them on each side, as they sang of hope and uncertainty. During the aria Christine looked down and caught glimpses of the cast – all of them standing in stupefied horror. One dancer fanned her face, her kohl-lined eyes turned up in expectant fear toward the rafters, as if waiting for lightning to strike down from the heavens. Madame Giry had paled and looked grim, her hand clutching the inside curtain. Meg was the only one who stared in approval, her lips parted in an astonished smile, as though she understood Christine's motive – and the audience …? She turned her head slightly to see.

Now that she climbed the steps above bright stage lights she could discern two ladies in a theater box use their handkerchiefs to blot tears from their eyes.

"Take my hand in this darkest of all nights and thoughts and dreams," they sang together as Piangi took her hand and brought her close, "My darling, only come to me … past the point of no return, the final threshold – the bridge is crossed so stand and watch it burn – we've passed the point of no return …"

He kissed her then, more passionately than in past performances, and Christine dug her fingernails into his shoulder in warning. Thinking of Erik and the pain she had caused him without intention, as well as in willful anger, she changed the script one last time:

"Forgive me, my darling," she cried out, "please forgive me!"

Throwing her arms around Don Juan's neck and holding to him tightly, she timed Aminta's tearful plea just before the bridge cracked and the trapdoor gave way, sending them through the second trapdoor in the stage floor and to the plump mattresses that protectively broke their fall.

Piangi reached for her hands and helped her to stand. "Bella Donna! I did not know how you feel…" He tried to wrap his arms around her.

Placing her palms against his chest Christine grimaced and pushed him away. "That wasn't for you."

Hurrying to the stairs that would take her backstage, her heart turned over at the thunderous applause from above – was it her imagination, or was it louder than she'd ever heard it?

Meg met her as she emerged through the backstage door and grabbed her hands in glee. "You were amazing, and so brave! But I don't envy you your next meeting with the Phantom. _No one_ defies the Opera Ghost – no one has dared …"

"Well, now someone _has. _And at least now there will _be_ a next meeting."

Christine told herself she'd had no choice, not if she ever wanted to see her stubborn husband again. But now that the rebellious deed was concluded, she felt the first stirrings of dread mixed with a strong attack of nerves that made her question her judgment.

Erik's music was sacred to him, his compositions the sole source of pride – many of their arguments stemmed from her mere _suggestions_ that he change small portions of the opera – but she had actually done so to _an entire scene_ in a live performance against his wishes and without his prior knowledge.

_Dear God…_

She clutched her hand to her heart as she hurried to the stage to take her bows. Ovation after ovation proved the production a success, yet as her arms were filled with roses, she couldn't help but notice every member of the cast look at her as if she'd broken all Ten Commandments in one fell swoop. And for this theater, she had – _his_ commands.

Once the final curtain closed, she hurried off the stage. Madame Giry grabbed her arm before she could get far.

"Do you realize what you've done?" she asked sharply.

"I had to," Christine said firmly, though inside she shook like a lone leaf on a branch losing the battle to a winter storm.

She broke away but was soon surrounded by other cast members and fans. Their faces beamed with admiration, their words full of praise, but many of those who worked in the theater continued to stare at her with nervous disbelief and expectant dread, as if they waited for the notorious Phantom to suddenly swoop down on her from above. Chilled, she rubbed her arms, beginning to realize the full extent of what she'd done.

She was no coward, but perhaps it would be best to give time for his fury to cool. For them to speak now might tear the rift between them even wider.

Raoul came up beside her, offering his praises. Before she could change her mind, she clutched his arm. "Please, take me to the hotel. I'm exhausted and wish to rest so that I may feel well enough to attend tomorrow night's ball."

He nodded, looking relieved by her request. "As you wish."

They moved toward the back stage door to avoid the hordes of theater goers outside. Christine caught Madame's stare of grim disapproval and quickly looked away. Yes, alright, perhaps she was acting a tad spineless to flee so soon, but to delay their long coveted meeting for one more night truly was for the best. Her goal had at last been realized…

She had no doubt now that he would come to her.

.

**xXx**

.

Madame Giry dropped her wine glass as the secret door inside her office was whipped violently aside.

She whirled around, placing her hands behind her to the rim of the desk for support. "M-monsieur? Twice in two weeks you visit me in my office. Perhaps there is no longer a need for notes?" Her greeting was foolish, out of place, but it was all she could think of to say when so suddenly faced with the Phantom's dark rage.

Like an advancing wraith he swept toward her, his eyes blazing golden within the sockets of the black mask.

"**_What the hell have you done to my opera?_**" He picked up the papers with his drawings for costumes and shook them in her face, then threw them to the floor with a sideways sweep of his arm. "You have destroyed all I worked so hard to achieve, making my most prized composition into a farce! Piangi was a doddering clown, Aminta behaved completely out of character! What gave you **_the idea_** that you had **_the right_** to make those changes?!"

"I did no such thing!"

Snarling, he moved in, his hand circling her throat. She recoiled, placing both her hands over his glove and his wrist, pulling against his strength to prevent him from choking her.

"I swear to you I had no hand in this," she gasped. "I made none of those changes – I never do so without your approval. _Please, monsieur,_ you're hurting me!"

"I should _kill_ you for what you've done," he grated but released her with a vicious little shove.

She wrapped a trembling hand around her throat. "I wouldn't dare go against your orders. I _know_ what you are capable of when angered …"

"If not you – then who?" he bit out. "_Reyer?_"

"No monsieur, the fault does not lie with the orchestra leader either. We had no warning this would occur …"

"**_Then tell me how this damn well bloody happened –_**"

"Your wife!" she shot back. "She did this without telling anyone her plans."

His eyes grew wide and he flinched, retreating a step as if he'd been struck.

"Christine…?" he whispered.

"Oui, _Christine_. She alone changed the opera."

He blinked rapidly, his wrath falling away like a violent windstorm that instantly died out. His eyes searched her face and the room as if he could not yet grasp what she told him. Unsteadily he turned away.

"_Christine_ did this," he whispered again, and if Madame had never known it before, she now saw how deeply the girl affected him. Never had she seen the Phantom so shaken, so _human_….

"It was not a total loss," she offered in tentative encouragement. "The audience response was outstanding. They loved the play …"

"Christine did this," he said again in a daze, as if he'd not heard a word she said. "I must, I must speak to her …"

"She has already left."

He slightly looked over his shoulder. "She's gone?"

"Oui, she left with the Vicomte and his cousin directly after the performance."

"I see." He looked before him again, slowly lifting his head as he stood taller. "Then there is nothing more to say." He moved toward the secret corridor.

"Monsieur – about tomorrow night, at the ball."

He stopped at the entrance before going through it. "Yes?"

"Do you still wish to proceed with your plan, as you have ordained it?"

"Yes, Madame. Be prepared. Now more than ever, I am resolved to carry out every act to the letter."

She shivered at the steely tone to his quiet words, his manner suggesting that something more sinister may occur of which she was unaware – and Christine may not be the only one guilty of altering preconceived plans ...

Madame's anxious gaze fell to her desk and the sealed note she had found earlier in the week. Only after she had returned to her office did she realize her mistake and that the missive was not meant for her. Though she had never learned his name, his wife would know, and the flowery script addressed to "Erik", must have come from Christine. The girl surely had discovered the secret box, likely with her inquisitive daughter's help.

"Monsieur…" She plucked up the envelope and turned to give it to him, but too late.

The secret door clicked shut behind the Phantom, and again she stood alone.

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: ********(borrowed some from ALW's lyrics of PONR, the ones made up are my own attempt, to fit my story. :)) - ****Things are about to come to a head. Can you feel the oncoming storm prickle in the air…? **

**It's coming… and you will not want to miss the next chapter. ;-)  
**


	63. Chapter 63

**A/N: Yes, can you believe it? Another chapter, in less than a week! :D Brace yourselves - there's a strong wind on the horizon and it's blowing this way… I borrowed from a favorite scene in ALW's movie, intermingled with my own ideas to fit plot. And now…**

* * *

**Chapter LXIII**

.

The vast ballroom of the foyer had been transformed into the iridescent dreams of a fairytale. A fragile place, where reality had not been permitted entrance, while fantasies waltzed in candlelit splendor before daylight could steal their secrets away.

Shimmering wisps of transparent veils in rose and gold hung gathered on the walls and at the entrances and hung draped from gold statues of half-clad goddesses that stood at the foot of the trio of staircases. Everywhere Christine looked, masked guests flocked in a pleasing clash of clever and colorful costumes signifying legendary characters, in literature and the genuine. Some danced across the marble floor polished to a mirror gloss; others gathered in select groups, laughing and conversing gaily. The orchestra played in an alcove two stories above, the music showering down on them bright and merry, befitting for a place of fantastical dreams …

… but the grandeur of the ball failed to touch Christine, who felt strangely absent from all of it.

It was the last place she wished to be, in this theater of brilliant light. Every nuance of her being craved escape and to be locked away into reality, and the darkness, with Erik. He, too, had tried to rewrite their life into a disguised tale of the absurd and the fanciful, but fairytales had no substance. Their intangible appeal offered a flimsy sham of escape that evaporated like dying hues before twilight.

The light was preferred for its beauty but could shield truth as cleverly as the darkness did. The shadows had become more real to her, a thing to be coveted, because they held what mattered most. She, who had shunned darkness now yearned to dwell in its midst, to be with the only man ever to make her feel so intrinsically alive. The echoes of silence heard in daylight had been vast and vociferous, the shimmer of music no more than a beautiful memory on a distant horizon of eternal dusk. The beats of his heart, the exhalations of his breath, the moans of his pleasure, these were the pure notes Christine again longed to hear, the music of the night that was theirs alone to experience ... and his voice, his beautiful voice, so sinuous and rich it coated her bloodstream in warm desire …

But it seemed she was to be sentenced to this world above in all its bright hazy pretense.

She had forged the excuse to Raoul that she must dress in costume here, at the Opera House, and Meg had secretly slipped away from her dressing room to give her the opportunity to face her Phantom alone. But though Christine waited an extensive amount of time, he had not come to her through the mirror or by any other means. No note arrived to greet her, no word was given. She had told herself that perhaps he had not attended the opera last evening to know of her bold but necessary defiance. Yet not five minutes ago Madame took her aside to inform her that the Phantom had visited her in her office and was not one bit pleased with the performance, that Christine never was to attempt such an audacious act of rebellion again and must fully conform to the opera as it was written.

Christine now smiled and nodded to those who greeted her and her handsome escort dressed as a Shakespearean prince. Her features were an animated mask of delight, skilled actress that she had striven to become. But inside she was livid with disbelief dulled only by the ache of dismay.

How dare he speak to Madame and not directly to Christine! How dare he deal with her as if she was an underling – she, _his wife_ – and treat her with his damnable distance again!

"Would you care to dance?" Raoul asked, snapping her out of turbulent thoughts.

"Yes, of course." She pulled her silver-sequined mask anchored on a stick away from her face and took his arm, determined to enjoy herself. But the gaiety of the brisk dance failed to cheer her soul, and when the song concluded she was more than ready to leave the ballroom floor.

As another tune began, he moved as if to whirl her around a second time, but she shook her head and took a slight step back. "Would you mind bringing me some refreshment? I am rather parched after that."

"Of course." Raoul escorted her from the dancing and slightly bowed before leaving in search of her drink. She sensed his cousin come to stand beside her and felt her fingers touch her arm above her glove.

"Can we not put all bygones and foolish misunderstandings aside so that we might enjoy this one evening?" Arabella asked softly.

"Foolish?" Christine gave a little laugh devoid of humor and turned her head to look at her in disbelief. "_Misunderstandings_. Try blatant and absolute _lies_. Had you been honest with me four years ago I – _we _– would not be in this present situation. I would be with my husband, living the life we would have chosen, and you would be with the man you truly love – and not a doddering, dull marquis long past his prime!"

Arabella drew in a swift breath, wincing at Christine's cruel and pointed words. "I was wrong to keep all knowledge of his visits from you, I admit that. But you didn't have to choose to remain. Had you wished to, you could have left The Grange at any time after your recovery. That was _your decision_, Christine, and I will not be blamed for it any longer."

Christine bristled at her firm, quiet reply, feeling the familiar twinge of guilt for her own multitude of past sins, but already wound in a net of frustration, Arabella had become the target for her current anger.

"Your avoidance to speak the truth led me to believe he did not care as I had hoped and wanted little to do with me. I was hurt and said things I never should have. To him. To others. All of it set the course for things unimaginable …" She shivered to remember his blunt, seemingly cold confession in the darkness of her hotel bedchamber.

"Is that not also your current experience?" Arabella reminded needlessly, then sighed in weariness. "Oh, poppycock. Enough of this. Speak to him, Christine. Do not allow this present course to drive you further apart. Ask him how he feels toward you, and let the truth be known of your own heart."

"You think I haven't _tried_? You _know_ I have! You were there, at the cave." Christine briskly shook her head, blinking away tears. "I cannot speak of this, not now, not to you…"

Arabella watched as Christine strode quickly away to meet an approaching prince clad in blue velvet, who smiled and handed her a glass of champagne. Raoul's eyes shifted to meet Arabella's and held for tense seconds. She turned away, on the pretext of studying the dancers. Lord Cavendish earlier told her that due to his tone-deafness, he preferred not to dance but would allow her the privilege, and had joined his peers outside the foyer. Already he treated her as a possession, as if he felt he had the right to bestow permission, and though he _was_ her escort and she knew a need for continual consent _could_ be the case if she became his wife, she did not relish the idea of being subservient to him as was expected. At least with Raoul, they were more or less on equal footing.

Arabella grimaced and approached a refreshment table with a tall fountain of sparkling champagne flowing down its crystal tiers. Holding out her gloved hand for a fluted glass, she blinked in shock when the glass was intercepted, and turned to see a tall gentleman with broad shoulders hold her drink hostage. He was dressed head to toe in a black hooded costume of what appeared to resemble a Gothic dark squire.

"Would mademoiselle care to dance?" he asked, his deep voice barely heard over the music but striking a chord of familiarity that made her give a sharp intake of breath.

In her social class, to dance without first being formally introduced was scandalously unacceptable, but the Opera House was a world all unto itself…

Besides, he needed no introduction.

Nervous as to what he wanted, she nonetheless agreed. He set down her captured glass and she accepted his black gloved hand, a tingle of fear mixed with curious interest propelling her steps as she followed him into a waltz. His large hand slipped to the side of her waist, his form lean, but his inherent strength making her feel weak as he gracefully moved into the steps, and she recalled another occasion when she had felt this same breathless vulnerability – only then his hand had been at her throat.

She looked up past his full dark mask into eyes of bright gold.

"To what do I owe this honor, to dance with the infamous Phantom of the Opera? Or should I call you Monsieur Erik, Christine's childhood gypsy-friend?"

If he was shocked that she had learned both his identities, he failed to show it. His lips twisted into a mocking smile as he took in the brown feathered and beaked mask of the partridge she wore before again looking into her eyes. His grip on her hand tightened.

"So, you remember," he said smoothly. "At least we may dispense with the fuss of arcane revelations. And _the Vicomte_," he said his name like a bad taste in his mouth. "Does he also know my secrets?"

"No, I have told him nothing. He doesn't even know of my visit to your caves."

"Now you astonish me." He studied her in curiosity. "You do not fear me?"

"I doubt you have bothered to attend tonight's gala, only to strangle me in the midst of hundreds of guests on the ballroom floor."

He chuckled darkly and spun her around, causing her to catch her breath.

"That surely would cause a stir. Indeed, the image excites the imagination."

She frowned at his cavalier response, though her heart raced a little faster that she could not tell if he spoke in absolute jest.

"Yes," he sighed, his manner growing serious, as if weary of taunting her and wishing only to speak of what was significant, "you are correct. I arranged for this moment only to deliver a message, so listen well, milady – no matter what happens tonight with Christine, _keep your cousin away._ Follow Madame Giry's lead. Tell the Vicomte whatever you must. But know this, if you choose not to cooperate, the consequences will be grave."

"Must you make everything into a threat?" Arabella asked, a bite to her words. "Can you not just _ask_ for my help?"

He was taken aback by the question. "And you, _Lady de Chagny_. You would help _me?_ The same lowly gypsy who dared to darken the door and seek entry to your sacred household four years ago?" He laughed bitterly when she winced with shame at his mockery.

"Given the right circumstances, I might."

"Why?" he sneered. "What has changed?"

"I would do it for Christine."

"Indeed..." His gaze flicked down her body in dispassionate appraisal then up again. She got the impression that he was assessing her worth as a willing cohort. Behind the mask, he narrowed his eyes as he looked over her shoulder. "She might not thank you for your interference. Even now she glares this way. Nor does her _escort_ look pleased. Have you three fought?"

He sounded delighted by the idea and spun her around so that she faced the two. Both Raoul and Christine stood near the wall, watching them. Christine's face was white, her mouth pinched, her expression one of angry disbelief. Raoul also looked upset, though among all the masked individuals there he could not _possibly_ know that she danced with the Phantom of the Opera. He had never seen the man to know who his enemy was.

She looked away and back into the Phantom's calculating eyes. "Do you wish for my aid or don't you?"

He studied her warily, as if still suspecting her motive. "I have said it. Whether you wish to give it freely or it is compelled from you makes no difference to me."

She had heard much of the tale of his life and could not fault him for his mistrust.

"For Christine's sake, I'll do what I can. I know you'd never hurt her, though forgive me if I'm somewhat apprehensive of what you have planned for the rest of us …"

His lips twisted into a cunning, secret smile. "Just be prepared."

"Prepared for what...?"

The waltz arrived to its conclusion. Instead of the explanation she sought, he swiftly spun her around in a series of turns and through the most populated area of the dance floor. Bowing her head at the blur of motion and color, Arabella struggled to catch her breath then felt his hold slip from her once he brought her to a whirling stop. Dizzy, she pressed a hand to her heart and looked up, to find herself alone on the fringes of the dance floor, near the refreshment table where he had first approached...

The Phantom nowhere in sight.

.

** xXx**

.

The ball had halfway concluded, the approach of midnight near, and with intent eyes, Christine _still_ surreptitiously searched the crowded ballroom for the tall masked man in black who had waltzed with Arabella. One moment he had been whirling the Vicomte's cousin through throngs of dancing couples. The next he simply vanished.

She told herself that continual thoughts of Erik and his unknown whereabouts made her imagine his presence there, as she had over two and a half years ago at her birthday celebration. If he was not so adverse to being seen, she reasoned it _could_ have been him. He had acquired skill in dancing. As a girl growing into a woman at the Heights, she had persuaded him to be her partner so that she could learn the steps to all the dances. And when they danced together in the parlor to Papa's violin, and in later years on the moors, with the haunting music of the wind for accompaniment, they had complemented one another beautifully.

But, no, she must have been mistaken. Erik would not come out of hiding to dance with Raoul's cousin! He despised anyone with the name of de Chagny.

Or - under the protection of a commonplace disguise made almost unnoticeable against the ostentatious flamboyancy of others in attendance - _would_ he dance with Arabella? He had seemed to look straight at Christine for tense seconds, though his face had been concealed in the shadow of his hood.

Was this the Phantom's latest ploy, to torment Christine and make her jealous?

Raoul invited her to dance again. Christine masked her frown and gratefully accepted, eager to escape such vexing, ridiculous thoughts. Raoul also seemed troubled, his smiles not coming as freely as before.

He waltzed with her along the center of the floor, sweeping her along to the foot of the middle staircase.

The gaslights flickered off and then lit up in their frosty globes again – several times – and the dancing came to an abrupt stop, everyone looking above to see what had caused the interruption. At the same time the candles near Christine extinguished as if a strong wind had blown through, though no air gusted to stir the flames.

Her heart fluttered in anxious shock then plummeted to her midsection in a tumble of stunned excitement. The musicians' instruments wavered on a booming note – and reality broke through the barriers of fantasy as darkness commandeered the light.

Clad in blood red, a new arrival stood at the top center of the wide staircase at the right. His bearing declared a bold, confident authority, while his presence captured one collective breath. In dread anticipation, Christine along with every guest in the ballroom stared up with wide eyes at the imposing sight of the Phantom of the Opera in all his mystique and dark glory.

Even from this distance and masked differently, she would recognize him.

Bewildered that he had actually stepped out of the shadows to appear at a public gathering, even a masked one, but even more shocking - that he was so recklessly announcing his presence - her sulkiness was forgotten, pierced by the sharp fear for his continued safety. Quickly she scanned the faces of those standing nearest him for recognition. Thankfully, seeing none, her hungry eyes again fastened to his form.

His martial costume of an emperor overpowered the darker-hued disguises the majority of the men favored, the vivid color garish if anyone else were to wear it, but flattering to his complexion and strong male physique. His tunic bore bright gold buttons with epaulets of the same color at the shoulders and his breeches clung to his long muscular legs like a second skin. His feet were shod in tall black boots and a black belt encircled his waist, a sword hanging at his side. A cape of brilliant red trailed far along the stairs behind him. Majestic ... captivating, a man of mystery about whom Christine wished to know every secret, no matter how dark.

Once she slowly brought her eyes up his form to his face, she noted his costume mask, crafted like a skull, the sockets hollowed out with black around his eyes. Her stomach gave an uneasy lurch to realize what his disguise represented.

Death.

Many of the guests along the staircase edge stepped back in unease as he took two deliberate steps downward, his comportment one of poetic grace. Christine held what breath she had left as he addressed the now quiet ballroom in sardonic song, his attention going to the managers who stood in horrified uncertainty:

"Messieurs, I bid you welcome – did you miss me, my fine friends? A few points I must address before I return you to your Bal Masque …"

Christine's heart pounded against her ribcage upon hearing the sound of his seductively beautiful voice after having been denied it for so long. At the same time she blinked in incredulous awe to realize he was making clear to those still unaware exactly whose presence they stood in.

She could barely conceive this was happening, though the sea of anxious eyes fixed on him told her she had not dreamed her dark Angel into existence.

What mischief was he up to now...?

She swallowed hard and clutched Raoul's arm for fear that her trembling knees might betray her and she sway and fall into an awkward heap of pink froth, satin and roses. Her escort glanced at her in curiosity then back to the fearless newcomer in red who continued to slowly descend the curved staircase. Distrust narrowed the Victome's eyes.

"It's just so warm in here," she whispered, hoping to allay his suspicions.

"Who is that?" he asked her just as quietly.

"That…?" Christine searched her panicked mind for a viable answer and decided a half truth was best. "That's my teacher. He has some… influence over the opera."

"Your teacher. The same man you told me avoids crowds?"

"Perhaps he thought it time for a change."

She prayed desperately that he would believe her, though she doubted her Phantom desired any true change except from those who worked under his strict mandates, and as he continued to address the cast he proved her assumption correct.

"…The violinist is absurd, the dancers a deplorable mess, and my managers still presume that they know how to run an opera…" He pulled out his sword in one swift, skillful move and made a half turn to taunt them with his blade. Their eyes bugged as they arched backward to avoid its silver tip.

Christine gasped along with many in the ballroom.

"What in blazes does he think he's doing?" Raoul reached for his own sword, before realizing he wasn't wearing one. She grabbed his sword arm more tightly.

"It's alright. He won't hurt them," she nervously assured, praying it was so.

Surely, though she knew him to be a murderer, Erik would cause no true harm amid hundreds of witnesses who could now see him in the flesh? Witnesses who were now privy to the image of his form and face, masked though it was! She recalled threats the Phantom made during her time with him in his caverns, about what he wished to do to each of the cast members, one in particular...

and watched as he took two more steps down and stood before the haughty woman, who stared up at him from the edge of the step below.

"The erstwhile La Carlotta must cease with her pathetic dramatics ..." the Phantom continued to sing while with his blade he pierced an apple amid the nest of fruit atop her tall gold hat.

He plucked the red globe from the wide brim, to the woman's outraged consternation and more horrified gasps from his audience. Christine nervously widened her eyes but couldn't help the quiet giggle that escaped at his calm audacity. He then pulled the fruit from the tip, tossing it aside, and turned the weapon on her escort.

"... While the clownish Señor Piangi must improve his lackluster theatrics ..." In taunting threat, he moved his sword from the stocky tenor's throat to the paunch of his gold-garbed belly.

Raoul's muscle clenched beneath her hold, and Christine dug her stiff fingers into his arm, determined to keep him from lunging forward.

"As for our star ... _Miss_ _Christine Grendahl ..._" The words of song came out in a mocking hiss both terrible and beautiful to behold as her Maestro, at last, turned his full attention her way.

She gasped at the dizzying impact as irises, like molten gold, locked on her - made even brighter by the black he'd painted around them - and seared through to her soul. Never had she seen the Phantom in such brightly-lit surroundings; the vibrancy of his eyes, even from this distance, made the flames from the candles seem weak in comparison.

Her legs did not cease to tremble but Christine stood taller, determined not to let him see even a trace of her anxiety at his justly deserved reprimand.

"No doubt she does her best, it's true her voice is good," he took the last two steps down the stairs and gave a soft mocking little nod and smirk, addressing the crowd, before again turning the blazing furnace of his eyes on her – "but she must cease to forget – the opera's _not_ her playground, _to change to suit her mood _…"

He took the last stair in descent to the dais and stared down the short middle flight of steps, to the foot of them where she stood. Raising his arm, he lifted a black glove and slowly crooked his finger, signaling for her to join him.

Powerless to resist with no inclination to want to, Christine fought down trepidation and took the first stair, knowing in the deepest chambers of her heart that Erik would never harm her.

Raoul grabbed her gloved arm before she could ascend to the second step. "Christine! What are you doing?" he exclaimed in a low voice. "You can't go up there!"

"It's alright," she quietly assured, barely taking her eyes off Erik. "He's _my teacher_." She briefly moved her focus to scan the curious crowd nearest them. "Please, don't make a scene."

"Your teacher seems to have gained that full advantage."

_"Please, Raoul ..."_

At the urgency in her tone, what she could see of his brow furrowed above his dark blue velvet mask, but this time he did not prevent her from moving up the stairs.

The closer she drew to her Phantom, the more lightheaded she became with a breathlessness both eager and apprehensive. Her heart pounded in rapid counterpoint with each slow step as Christine clutched her frothy pink princess gown of satin and taffeta and roses at her sides, her hands perspiring in her long white gloves.

She took the final step and moved to the middle of the dais, until at last she came face to face with her dark Angel. Standing a little more than a foot apart, their chests rose and fell in rapid rhythm while a multitude of emotions played across their features ...

and each of them remembered.

The Phantom did not look away, his eyes of bright gold reflecting the nearby flames and setting her blood afire.

Christine stared with the same fixation, her eyes wells of deep midnight that drowned his soul in their depths.

After electric seconds not unlike the calm before a storm, his gaze lowered to the daring neckline of her satin bodice and the chain she wore there. He drew his lips into a firm line, his jaw hardening in anger.

"**_This_**," – Before she knew what he was doing, his gloved fingers brushed the cleavage of her bosom and he snapped the chain from around her neck. She gasped from the slight sting and the warm tingles his touch produced. He held up her heart locket and wedding ring, shaking the chain in her face. – "_YOU__** - **__belong to_ _ME_."

"_Give it back,_" she demanded under her breath, noticing the stir on the middle staircase at the same time Erik did. They both turned their heads to see Raoul charging up the last few steps.

Swiftly the Phantom spun Christine around, grabbing her to his hard body, his arm wrapping tight beneath her breasts. At the same time he brought up his sword, pointing it toward the Vicomte and effectively stopping him in his tracks a few feet away.

"Leave her be!" Erik growled in demand and retreated several steps back, bringing her with him. "**_She's mine!_**"

Immediately he lowered the sword, perpendicular to his body, and bowed his head to hers. Without warning, Christine felt the floor give way beneath their feet, as the world around her became engulfed in a wall of fire and thick red smoke.

x

"_Mon Dieu_," Madame Giry anxiously whispered beneath her breath, the stunned and horrified gasps undulating throughout the room echoes to her shock. She clutched the lace collar at her throat before remembering her cue had arrived.

Hurriedly she clapped her hands in boisterous applause and moved onto the dais where the frightening Opera Ghost had just disappeared in a magnificent blaze of smoke and fire with his captive bride.

"Bravo and brava! A most splendid performance." She hoped no one else noticed the quaver in her voice as she expectantly looked around at the bewildered faces of the crowd, all of them still frozen in shock. She worked to shake off her own bedazzlement, her taciturn Maestro having not told her _all_ of what to expect.

Waving her hand about the air at the obscure wisps of pungent red smoke that lingered she moved to where the Vicomte stood. The managers were fools and would be easy to convince, but the Vicomte was another matter entirely.

"Messieurs, Madames, and Mademoiselles – you have all been the audience to a brief skit, performed for your entertainment and in honor of this festive occasion on this night of lovers, highlighting a similar scene from an upcoming opera."

A stir filled the crowd, along with relieved laughter and low murmurs, many of the guests also breaking into smattering groups of applause that intensified through the room before dwindling away. Only the Vicomte stood unaffected by her words, his expression dour.

"A skit," he said in disbelief. "It was nothing more than a performance."

"Of course." Madame Giry lifted her hands with a smile. "This is the theater, after all. We feast on the dramatic here."

"Ah," The managers nodded at each other. "A unique surprise."

"Yes, unique," Andre agreed, turning his focus on her, "although a trifle discomfiting after what we have undergone during our short tenure here. The notes–"

"Yes, I understand, gentlemen," she hastily interrupted. "However, imitation is the highest form of flattery, it brought publicity, and it is our hope that it will impress any and all who watched." She hoped they would understand her veiled reference to the Phantom and cease with any further mention of him.

"Ah, yes, I see," Firmin said with a superior twitch of his mustache. "I was actually thinking of something along the same lines last week. A wise choice. Let us hope this endeavor meets with success."

"We are most pleased that you enjoyed our small presentation."

Madame had no doubt in her mind that by the dawn of the new morning Monsieur Firmin would have taken full credit for the Phantom's carefully planned performance.

"Any and all who watched?" the Vicomte repeated her earlier words.

Madame nodded once. "Potential investors. Others with influence."

"If it was only a skit, then with it now concluded, where is Miss Grendahl?" The Vicomte briefly looked around the room to make his point. "I don't see her."

The managers drifted away, clearly not interested in the location of their new diva. The music resumed and couples swept to the dance floor below, the guests again happy and assured that nothing was amiss.

"Christine is fine."

"That does _not_ answer my question, Madame."

"Maman is right," Meg said, a white swan floating forward to help instill calm. "It was all planned in advance."

"I don't believe it." Raoul stared in accusation at Madame. "He taunted the cast personally, calling them by name."

"All part of the fun," Madame reassured. "Of course the libretto, should we decide to use it, will have false names. Only a select few were in on the surprise."

Arabella moved away from her escort and up the stairs to stand beside her cousin, her expression curious to hear what was being said.

"Would you like to know what I think," Raoul continued. "That was no performance and he was no actor. The manner in which that madman spoke leads me to believe that we were all witness to none other than the _Phantom of the Opera, _who has_ taken Christine_."

Madame was thankful no one else within the vicinity paid attention to their discussion, the guests intent on merrymaking. "It was a performance, monsieur, nothing more. Christine was one of the players in the drama – why else would she so willingly approach him if she were in danger? Did you hear her cry out for help or see her struggle to get away?"

"She is under his spell – she has behaved strangely since her mysterious return to the theater – and I'll damn well wager _you're_ his aide in all of it. You and your daughter. _The_ _Phantom_ is _her teacher_, isn't he?"

Without waiting for a reply to his snide accusation, Raoul turned on his booted heel and stormed down the stairs and toward the entrance. Arabella looked at Madame in worried confusion.

"Well?" she urged, "I saw you dance with the Maestro and know you are aware of his plan. Will you help, or will you watch your cousin gather a mob to seek Christine - who I am sure you are also aware has no wish to be found?"

A look of determination crossed the Lady de Chagny's solemn features before she gave a curt nod of agreement and hurried downstairs after the Vicomte.

Meg shared a conspiratorial smile with her mother. "Well, that was certainly exciting! Besides the brilliant way the Phantom escaped with Christine, I think I most enjoyed what he did to Carlotta's awful hat."

"Meg!" Madame scolded in a hushed tone.

Meg giggled without remorse and drifted away to dance with a young man from the chorus. Madame shook her head in supreme weariness.

She hoped the Lady de Chagny could convince her resolute cousin that nothing was amiss ... but more importantly that the obstinate Phantom and his spirited bride would resolve their heated differences before they brought the entire Opera House down around everyone's heads!

.

**xXx**

.

Arabella caught up with her cousin outside their closed carriage. She grabbed his arm as he wrenched open the door.

"Raoul, wait – what are you doing?"

"Fetching my sword – and then I'm going to gather whatever men will assist me to help search for Christine and capture that madman!"

Since Buquet's supposed accident, which he still believed was murder, Raoul kept his sword in the carriage when he wasn't wearing it, and again she prevented him from reaching for the weapon.

"Wait, Raoul, please – _listen to me!_"

"What?" he said in impatience. "Christine is in danger and you wish to stand here and _hold a discussion_? We have wasted too much time as it is!"

"No, she's not in danger – Madame Giry was right – it was all a performance. _Do you hear?_" She tugged on his arm, getting him to look at her. "Christine is in no danger!"

The Phantom may be overbearing and powerful, certainly dangerous to the misfortunate and unwary who crossed paths with him. But after all that transpired, and upon seeing how the Maestro and his attentive bride had stared at one another – as if each composed their entire universe, heedless to the existence of all others in the ballroom – Arabella was certain the Phantom, for all his faults, would never cause Christine harm.

She noticed that they had attracted a small audience of guests who stood outside and watched them with blatant curiosity.

"Please, Raoul, let us take a ride and continue this discussion inside the carriage," she appealed with lowered voice, her tone just as emphatic. "I love Christine like she was my own flesh and blood. If I thought she was in peril, do you think I would be standing here trying to prevent you from going back and making a fool of yourself? I would be finding a way down that trapdoor and heading the search party _with_ you! But I _know_ she's in no danger. Trust me in this."

He narrowed his eyes in clear indecision but gave a terse nod and helped her inside, ordering the driver to take them once around the block before joining her on the seat opposite.

Away from prying eyes, Arabella marginally relaxed and searched her mind for what to tell her cousin. She had no wish to lie - a bevy of lies had immersed all four of them into this wretched mess of horrors - and she sought for a way to convince him to surrender his search while speaking the truth, all without betraying Christine's confidence.

Surely Brutus's protestations to convince Caesar of the lack of foul play had been less complicated, though she didn't feel exactly like a traitoress, either.

"Alright, Arabella, you have my full attention. How do you know it was a performance?" Raoul asked impatiently. "Did Christine tell you? Why would she not share such information with me? Why was I not told about a skit by _anyone there_, since I am patron of the theater and supposedly in charge?"

Slowly she pulled off her mask and set it on the bench seat beside her, keeping her composure in the midst of his frenzied questions. She hated to wound his feelings, but knew of no other method to convince him to keep his distance.

"You have kept her locked away from everyone, hounding her every movement for weeks, at the hotel, at the theater. Is it so surprising that she wished for a method to break free from her captivity and obtain some peace and freedom? The performance tonight gave her the means to do so in a theatrical manner that entertained the guests."

His head drooped slightly, as if he found truth to her words, but unsure he was convinced she took it a little further, "You know how Christine has always loved her little adventures – one of those is what brought her to us four years ago when she and her friend climbed that tree and spied on our ball. She changed so much after he was killed and lost her spirit for creating excitement. We should be grateful that she's rediscovered it." She smiled. "We'll hear from her when she's ready to be seen."

"She's with her teacher?" he asked skeptically. "_You_ were in on this?"

She swallowed hard at the hurt in his voice and nodded, realizing Christine must have told him that much about his identity.

"Yes ... and yes. There really was no other way."

"And her teacher is _not_ the Phantom?"

How to answer that!

"She has talked to me at length about him and trusts him implicitly. The man she described sounds nothing like the deranged man you hunt."

That much was true; Christine's version of her "Soulmate, Erik" and Raoul's interpretation of "the Scourge on society" greatly differed.

Slowly he pulled off his mask and set it down beside him with a resigned sigh.

"And you, Arabella. Is your decision to spend so much time with Lord Cavendish a means of escape as well? Do you feel confined at the hotel with me?"

She took in a swift breath at the unexpected turn in conversation, relieved he had given up on chasing after Christine but nervous to proceed with the change in topic. To be near him as no more than a cousin, when she wished to be more, had grown increasingly painful.

"I should have thought you would be pleased," she said lightly. "Is it not commendable for me to spend time with my suitor?"

He snorted softly at her choice of words. "You speak of only one, but perhaps there are others?"

She shook her head in confusion at his odd statement. "I don't understand."

"The man in black I saw you dance with," he said, his tone reeking with disapproval. "He seemed to be on familiar terms with you, and you with him ..."

"You cannot be serious."

She almost laughed to think of how he would react to know the true identity of her dance partner – _and_ that he was Christine's husband – then thought better of finding humor in such a reaction. He was sure to be furious if he knew how they had duped him, how she was still duping him ...

_For Christine_, she reminded herself. It was only right that she do all she could to mend past mistakes.

Araballa nervously shrugged. "He was a guest. It was a ball. People dance at balls. And I happen to love to dance. But you didn't answer my question, Raoul. I should have thought you would approve of the time I spent with the Marquis. Is that not what you and uncle wanted ...? Well, isn't it?" she insisted when he glanced out the window.

"I once asked the same question of you." He turned his eyes back to hers. In the dim lamplight coming into the carriage, she felt their vivid blues probing her. "If it was what _you_ wanted."

Her heart skipped a beat, and she recalled her earlier words to Christine on the matter of expressing feelings with honesty. Perhaps it was time to remove the hidden masks and take her own advice.

"Lord Cavendish told me that he had something important to ask you ... Did he?"

Raoul nodded. "He came to me a week ago, on the morning I first took Christine to rehearsal."

"Oh?"

"He asked for your hand in marriage."

Arabella exhaled a soft breath, the news not coming as a surprise. "What did you tell him?"

"That I couldn't give him an answer. That he would have to write for Father's approval or should go visit with him." He looked out the window again.

"Why?" She furrowed her brow in puzzlement. "Uncle is in Bordeaux at Lord and Lady Dolworth's country home and put you in charge of finding me a husband. You told me so."

"In this situation I think it would be best if Father agreed."

"Because he's an old friend of your father's?

He didn't answer.

"Or is this only another tactic for delay?"

His expression grew wary as he studied her. "Delay ...?"

"Yes, delay. You have found fault with every man I have suggested as a potential suitor, and the one man considered suitable to our class, who has shown interest in me as a wife, you put off with excuses of needing further permission. Why?"

"Why?" he hesitated.

"Yes, Raoul – _why?_"

"I am responsible for you. It's my duty to exercise caution and protect you from an unsuitable union."

"And that's the only reason?"

"What other reason would there be?"

She shook her head in extreme frustration, throwing to the wind all pretenses and fearful concern that her suspicion of his deeper feelings for her had no substance.

"This!" she exclaimed softly.

Moving forward to express the extent of her own feelings, she took his face between her satin-clad hands and pressed her lips firmly to his.

She felt the current of his shock, but he did not pull away and she kept her mouth against his for several breathtaking seconds longer. Once she drew back, her heart thudding in nervousness at her brazen move, she lifted her eyes to search his own.

"So tell me now and tell me truthfully ... is that the only reason?" she repeated her initial question.

"You know it's not." This time his hands lifted to cradle her head, his fingers weaving into the tendrils of her hair. "I don't want you to marry anyone, Arabella ... but me."

She smiled, tears misting her eyes. "I had hoped you would say that."

His lips found hers this time, more passionately than before, and she brought her gloved fingers down to cradle the back of his neck, thankful the once-doomed night had ended on a note of high bliss.

She only hoped the same could be said for Christine and her Phantom.

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: Finally, E/C are together and the long-awaited firestorm is about to hit...  
**

**(*rubs hands together in mad glee)**

**Thanks for the reviews! :)  
**


	64. Chapter 64

**A/N: Thank you so much for taking me over 1000 reviews! :D You guys have made my night! I have written up a frenzy these past two weeks, doing little else (even shunning some needed housework), to give you the past two chapters and this long-awaited one with very little waiting time in between. It is doubtful I even need to extend the warning that this chapter deserves the rating- yes? ;-) Thank you – my valentine to all of you for your support & encouragement ...  
**

** And now … at last… **

* * *

**Chapter LXIV**

**.**

Once they fell through the trapdoors, the Phantom swiftly pulled a lever, locking them into place. He sheathed his sword and shed the awkward yards of his heavy cape that impeded rapid movement, then grabbed Christine's arm and hurriedly strode with her down a passage lit earlier with candles. He needed no such guiding light, but he did not wish Christine to falter or fall in the darkness and had left nothing to chance.

There was no true need for haste, since none could follow with ease. Even if his orders were ignored and the imbeciles managed to break through the trapdoors into this heretofore unknown chamber beneath ground, he and his captive would have long disappeared through the hidden entrance that led down to the tunnels. Rather it was a burst of adrenaline from his magnificent triumph that fueled his steps – and angry disgust to have seen his errant bride cling so tightly to the arm of the intrusive Vicomte.

How had he once presumed that he could so stoically disregard her return to that boy? All noble attempts at icy control and pathetic self sacrifice disintegrated into sparks of jealous rage upon seeing the fool's hand at the small of her back – touching what was _his_ to claim, as if the fop had the right – and the Phantom was uncertain how he had borne the knowledge of her presence at the hotel all these weeks, even if she did sleep in the girl's room, as Madame informed him.

"Why did you do that?" Christine worked to catch her breath and be heard, putting the syllables that jarred through her mind to voice. "Was that _fire?_ Did you just set the ballroom _on fire?_"

"This is not the time or place," he answered brusquely.

She wished to argue but could find no sense, her mind still awhirl as her dark Phantom pulled her swiftly through a concealed entrance that had appeared as one with the wall. Beyond that stood the top of a towering stairwell wreathed in shadows of obscurity, the blackness deeper and trapped inside once he shut the stone door to close out the scant firelight of the chamber they just left. Without a hesitant step he kept his hold strong above her wrist as they descended wide stairs, gray oblong patches that strangely gleamed, dimly set off from the surrounding black, and wound far below into underground caverns. At the bottom, they came to a maze of corridors, stopping only for him to reset a trap, then took the sole passageway lit with sporadic torches.

Christine's heart had lodged somewhere in the vicinity of her throat during the unnerving descent as she followed along blindly, but little by little her shock began to dissipate now that she could again see. Disgusted anger at his caustic behavior after weeks of grating silence wore thin on what little patience she could yet claim.

"Tell me now!" she insisted. "What did you do back there?"

"It was no more than a flamboyant parlor trick," he snapped, his voice sounding more like his own with the ruse of the divergent accent gone, the deep timbre just as riveting. "Why should you care? Most of them are strangers and those who are familiar treat you with contempt."

"Meg doesn't. Madame doesn't. And I would _still care_ if you actually hurt anyone up there. Did you?" She stopped in her tracks and yanked back on his hold to prevent him from striding further ahead. "**_Did you?_**"

He spun on his heel and they faced one another down.

Concealed beneath the earth, Christine glared at her infuriating husband, determined to have everything out at last.

Safe from any pursuers, the Phantom was more than happy to give his curious bride exactly what she asked.

The unspoken demand for silence exploded between them, the fury of words bursting forth from a pyre of forced forgetfulness, both of them now resolute to be heard.

"You are worried about that irksome boy!" he accused, his eyes blazing gold.

"Of course I'm worried – I'm worried about **_anyone_** who gets in your way. I don't want anyone up there to die! People are not pawns on a board to be manipulated at your whim or bugs to be squashed because they vex you."

"How gracious of you to wish to become savior to all those perfect mortals above, who live in their own perfect world," he sneered.

"**_Did you set the ballroom on fire?_**"

"**_None of those wretched fools was hurt!" _**

"The flames –"

"The flames were equivalent to illusion, appearing for brief seconds, with nothing that an errant spark could combust near its path. Now, if you would be so kind, cease to speak of those abhorrent cretins at the ball who regard masks as mere frivolities!"

Relieved to know the Opera House remained intact, she quietly insisted, "Why do you hate them so much? Is it because of the mask that you must wear?"

He waved a dismissive hand. "That is only one fault of many."

Christine shook her head in weary confusion. "But – what terrible wrong have they done you?"

"You need ask?" His laugh came chilling. "They ignore _my_ orders with regard to _my_ opera and steal any claim for its glory. They call _me_ a monster, but they are like vultures pecking away at what flesh belongs to this corpse – and the wretched Vicomte is no better. He steals what is rightfully mine _and_ is daily encouraged!"

Christine winced in unease. "I doubt he was informed. He's too honorable to have a part in taking someone else's work without giving due credit –"

"**_And STILL you defend him!_**" His eyes were twin flames that scorched to the very depths of her soul. "He stole you away from me - _twice!_ Or perhaps your heart was freely given?" he sneered softly. "Did you again come to despise the monster and prefer the prince now that you know who and what I am?"

She glared at him. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

"No? You dance with that fop of a boy, flirt and laugh with him – allow him to escort you to the ball and who knows where and what else – all the while you cleverly hide _my ring _that shows to whom you truly belong." For the second time he shook the broken chain in her face with the wedding band she had worn around her neck. It clinked hard against the silver heart. "How typical of your fickle nature."

"You seriously didn't expect me to _leave_ it on my finger?" she snapped incredulously and let out a matching laugh devoid of humor, tearing her wrist from his hold.

Circumstances being what they were, he knew it was impossible, but the absence of it on her finger had enraged him.

"And what would you have me say to Raoul – or anyone else who might inquire as to its presence?" she continued, her voice thick with sarcasm. "The ring? Why, yes, I'm married to your archenemy – the Phantom of the Opera – who _tricked__ me_ into thinking he was my Angel of Music but was really my long-lost childhood companion and lover, long thought dead – who in his twisted desire for revenge **_abducted_**_ me and __**trapped**__ me into marriage_ – **_and now has sent me away to the opera house to live?!_**"

"I never trapped you into marriage!" His eyes flared amid the circles of painted black. "**_I gave you a choice_**_._"

"Ha! Some choice! Live throughout an eternity of darkness below the earth with a masked fiend who terrorized me at every turn - or give my soul to this nameless dark entity in ceremonial vows for life!"

"I kept my word," he growled. "I took you back."

"_Yes, but_ **_WHY DID YOU?_**"

"What?" he blinked, taken aback by her question and the ferocity of it.

"You heard me," she seethed, poking her finger in his chest. "Was it to punish me for those five weeks I stayed at The Grange, to show me what torture you went through, and make me suffer a torment far worse? Or was it due to the foolish spiel of lies I told Berta in confidence after you spurned me once we came down from The Summit?"

"I was keeping my vow to you, woman!" He again grabbed her wrist intent on pulling her with him.

"**_Like hell you were!_**_"_

Pierced with fragments of her past misery – misery _he_ had caused – she narrowed her eyes at his broad back as her fury ever mounted. The fire she had feared above now raged unseen below, all exhaustion burning away in its blaze.

She twisted from his hold and he impatiently turned again to look at her.

_"SIX WEEKS_, Erik? With NO word to me during these last two horrid weeks, NO sign that you were still here? NOTHING? Except for dozens of sensations and feelings I decided must be in my mind since **_you never_** came near. How was THAT keeping your vow to me? And let's not forget hiding behind a wall to give me lessons – never once allowing me to see you – and then **_ignoring_** _me_ after my debut, my only contact a vivid dream of you seducing me in my dressing chamber ... but – _that was no dream, was it...?_"

Realization came stark and heavy, her eyes going wide, and she wondered why she had never seen the truth before. "**_Did you drug my wine _****_that night _****_too_****?**"

"I had no need to drug you, my dear – you were in quite the drunken stupor, what with your little strip tease in the mirror." He winced at what he'd foolishly revealed.

Her face flushed with angry embarrassment as she stormed a few steps past him, remembering what she could of that night, which was still a haze.

"So then, it _was_ no dream?"

"Why do you persist on asking questions to which you know the answers? Yes, I was there..." He grabbed her above the elbow, forcing her to walk with him through another secret passage that led into another torch-lit corridor. He had suffered the most, having been acutely aware of every intimacy shared, every embrace desired and then tearing himself away from her. "Would you have preferred me to leave you lying naked on the floor?"

She whirled to look at him. "You _seduced_ me while I was intoxicated!"

"You forget, my dear – you would not let go," he scorned in reply.

She scowled at him, remembering the hollow feel of waking up alone the next morning in her dressing room – and day after endless day since he'd left her after his nocturnal visit to the hotel. Their passion in the secret corridor beyond the mirror had only honed her dismal loneliness to a sharper edge.

"Why did you not come to me at any time these past two weeks, _especially_ after the intimacy we shared?" She balled her hands at her sides. "Or was that just another part of your horrid game of manipulation and revenge?"

"**_You_** speak to **_me_** of manipulation?" his tone was darkly mocking. "Why did YOU change my opera?"

"**_You_** **_know_** **_bloody well_** **_why_**, **_damn_** **_you!_**" Another wave of incensed heat flushed her face. "How else was I finally to see you and make you understand?"

"I understood _quite well_ when you told me to leave after _I did_ come to the hotel to take you back with me!"

"No, Erik – _DON'T YOU_ **_DARE _**pin this on me!" she seethed, "I told you I just needed time." She moved forward once more to jab her finger in his chest. "But you – you've made a habit of manipulating that – and everything and everyone in your path!" her words ended on an angry little sob. "You _finally_ make me your wife – giving me the two singular, most incredible experiences _of my_ _entire lifetime_ – then toss me aside like day-old garbage. What of your _MARRIAGE_ _VOWS_ to me? What of your promise on the moors **_NEVER_** to let anything separate us?"

"YOU WOULD WISH TO LIVE IN THESE DAMNABLE, DARK CELLARS, AWAY FROM THE FRESH AIR AND DAYLIGHT –?"

**"—YES – IF THAT MEANS I'LL BE WITH YOU – I LOVE YOU!"**

**"—BUT I COULD NOT DO THAT OUT OF LOVE FOR YOU!"**

Their fierce shouts of devotion came in unison, the echoes reverberating in a frenzy throughout the hollow caverns.

Both took a step back and stared speechless at one another for an eternity of stunned heartbeats. Elation flickered only briefly as regret soon fed sorrow and stirred the dying embers of their bitter resentment with the need to understand.

"Tell me again," she whispered, praying she had heard correctly. That she did not just imagine what she had hoped and dreamed.

But he was dealing with his own disbelief. "Is it true? After all I have done, all I have said …Christine," – His voice came hoarse – "how can you love a monster like me…?"

She shook her head fitfully. "How can you even ask that? How can you even _think_ it – that I would _ever_ _cease_ from loving you? Did all we shared in England mean _nothing to you at all?_" Her own voice was breaking. "It would have been far easier to cut out my heart – though you took that with you when you left The Heights too…"

"Christine …"

"My soul …"

"No, don't say it."

"My _mind_ …"

"I cannot bear this…"

"My _LIFE!_"

She gritted her teeth and in a blind rage rushed forward, hitting his chest hard with her open palms and knocking him back a step into the wall.

**"**How could you, Erik! How could you do that_ –to ME?! To __**US**__!_**"**

Wildly she struck his chest with her fists, until he found and grabbed both her arms.

"**_YOU_** _cannot bear it?" _she viciously seethed up at him."I have lived in a wretched hell of my own making and yours _for over __**four bloody years!**_ Thinking you were dead, living in a sea of regret. I almost died – damn you! You _knew_ I often spoke childishly in my anger! You **_knew_** it!" Tears streamed unchecked down her face. "You should have come back that night! You should have confronted me about what I said! You shouldn't have even _been there_ eavesdropping in the shadows like some, some – THRICE DAMNED PHANTOM! All of this time we could have had together – all of it lost and gone. I **_HATE_** you for what you did to me – to us! I HATE you for riding away and not coming back when you SWORE you would never leave me – I HATE you for all of it because **_I LOVED_** **_YOU SO MUCH!_****"**

The tears threatening to choke her, Christine turned from him and fled down the corridor.

With a strangled curse, the Phantom gave chase and grabbed his vexing little Angel before she could make it past the next pool of golden torchlight.

Breaking free, she swung her hand around to slap his face, but this time he was ready. He grabbed her wrist in one glove and pressed it and her against the opposite wall, holding her there with his body. His other hand reached for her free hand by her skirts, also holding that wrist against the stones until she was effectively trapped. She struggled, but he pressed in harder. The feel of her soft, trembling warmth, the sight and scent of her threatened to raze his restraint as desire burned heavy through his blood, and he grasped what shreds of control remained.

"How could I come back, Christine?" he grated softly, his voice sensuous to her ears as he leaned in close. "With a bullet in my back? With Henri ready to finish the deed? I thought you wanted nothing more to do with me. To love me was to declare yourself _mad_, is that not what you told Berta? That I was _an ogre? A_ **_beast_**. You say I took your heart with me – but you cut your teeth on my heart ever since you were a child, and when you learned to bat those soulful dark eyes, **_you chewed it up and spit it out._**_"_

"I told you I didn't mean to say **_any_** of those things," she cried. "I have always loved you and only you!"

His brow raised in dark mockery. "And with this undying love you profess to have for me was your proof of that to become engaged to **_the Vicomte_** in less than a year's time …?"

Her eyes widened incredulously. "_WHAT?_ I **_never_** was enga –"

"Though you **_valiantly swore_** you could only ever love and be with a man who was of like mind and captured your soul," he went on cutting off her feeble protests. "Did you even mourn my passing, Christine?" His question came curiously detached, a shield to the remembered pain of her duplicity.

Fresh tears rimmed her eyes. "How DARE you ask me such a thing!"

"And I suppose you didn't **_live_**_ at the de Chagny estate_ within a fortnight of my supposed demise or travel with that wretched boy all over the world, or end up in this very opera house _a little over three damned years to this day – in Box Five – __**holding hands **_**_and later going to the hotel with the insufferable twit? The same hotel you've shared this whole past damn month!_**_"_

Her mouth dropped open in shock at his heated revelation. "You were actually **_there _**_that night? Three years ago? _You SAW me and – **_you_** **_didn't come forward?_**_!"_

"You looked quite cozy, _embracing in the hotel corridor __**then slipping into **__**his room," **_he growled in livid mockery. "I didn't think it the right moment to interfere. And I saw a repeat performance through the window of your hotel suite weeks ago. You didn't look too eager to leave **_your precious Vicomte's arms _**_then either_. _When only hours before, you had_ _been_ **_in mine_**."

In truth, he had wanted to charge through the door, wring the damned boy's fool neck, throw Christine over his shoulder and escape – both times – and just prevented himself from murder on each of those occasions.

She had been the reason for both his wrath and his mercy. Had he killed the boy in cold blood, he knew by her previous words to him that he would never gain the chance to win her back, challenging his doubt that he ever could.

"**_You_** **_heartless bastard!_** How can you say those things to me? Raoul was consoling me – both times – he's _always_ been nothing but kind. _And I have __**never**__ been unfaithful to you_ – _not once! _But **_YOU!_** I cannot fathom it … You actually followed me from the opera house to the hotel – _three bloody years ago_ – and remained hidden in shadows, _away_ from me? So close, within reach – yet leaving me to think you were dead?_!_ _ALL THIS TIME?_ **_How could you do that to me when I needed you so much!_**"

Sobbing at this newest discovery of his endless treachery, she again wildly struggled, wanting nothing more than to be free of the unfeeling blackguard, to run as far and as fast as she could go, to find a dark corridor where she could hide and never have to see his horrible, beautiful masked face again. In her heightened emotion, even the serpents seemed a tame exchange for the awful pain that lanced her soul.

As though sensing her thoughts, he pressed himself more firmly to her, preventing all avenue of escape. Through the fitted breeches of his costume she could feel his arousal hard against her belly covered with the many tufted layers of her skirts. The memory of his naked flesh pressed against and into her yielding body made her heart beat even faster and she grew very still, her traitorous senses responding as they always did when near him.

"Many were the nights and days I wanted to come to you, Christine," he whispered bitterly, shifting his position so that his face was close to hers, his captivating eyes holding hers equally imprisoned. "Then and now. I loved you without measure and I despised you just as fiercely. You were my salvation and you were my destruction…"

She squeezed away tears to think of his hatred. His love he spoke of as belonging to the past; had his deep affection for her been destroyed? Keeping her eyelids tightly shut, she used them as a shield from his eyes, unable to bear the accusation shimmering in gold.

"Where were you?" she insisted in a whisper, her foolish heart needing to know the truth even if it spilled more blood into its chambers. "Where did you go?"

"I had to stay away or risk being caught – surely you must know this. With you being constantly attended, it was imperative I carve out the perfect time for my return."

"No." She shook her head and opened her eyes. "Four years ago. Where were you? They said you died. Did you – did you stay in England?"

He grimaced with the memory. "I did not think it wise. Once I recovered enough to leave my bed, I traveled to Persia with a man I met. The same who found me left for dead and cut the bullets from my body – but there I found only more devastation and death. I returned to England, only long enough to learn of your close association with the Vicomte, then came to France and made a home, here, beneath the opera house of my enemies, where I could watch and learn and plan. Shortly after my arrival, you appeared that night in _my_ box, Box Five, _with him_. I watched you and plotted a strategy, then, to bring you to France permanently, _to me_. I wanted to make you suffer for what you'd done, to pay dearly. But once you arrived, you had changed. You were no longer the vain and selfish girl I'd left behind. You had become a shadow of yourself – until I brought you to my cellars. Then you were spitting fire and I finally saw glimpses of your true spirit again."

He shook his head as if that was not what he intended to say, but she had seen the crack in the armor of his harsh words and it thawed the chill in her soul.

"I repeatedly fed on the hatred I had for you, to make myself indifferent, even from the first when I heard you on your second night here as you so woefully sang in the theater, missing _that wretched boy_. No matter my bitterness at your betrayal, I could not bear to see you brought down so low and in such despair. Then you grew ill to the point of death. I became weak where you were concerned, no longer able to execute my full plan of revenge, especially after I discovered you were a virgin and had **_never even been_** with the damned bloody Vicomte in the first place, as I had thought throughout these past four hellish years, _as I was told!_ Especially after you discovered who and what I was - I couldn't bloody well condemn you to a life underground any longer. So I let you go."

He omitted the coarse talk he'd overheard in the tavern briefly visited on his first day back in England, that she was the Vicomte's whore, any engagement a farce, if indeed it ever led to marriage - a vain attempt to mend her sullied reputation. His spy he later hired had only confirmed such bitter tidings.

Christine's stunned mind tried to take in all he viciously spewed at her, but there was one admission she could not get past.

"_You_ brought me here from England?"

Grimly he smiled. "Who do you think told Madame Giry to write the letter to the fool, dictating the precise words to use? I knew he was inexperienced to the theater and would have no idea that managers don't write investors about finding members for the chorus. I assumed he would tell you of the letter but had no idea if you would rise to the bait. Yet had neither incident occurred, I would have found another method to ensure your arrival. Of course I didn't know then that you would refuse to sing."

"So you did all of this only out of spite and revenge?" she whispered, surprised that her tattered heart could still feel such pain.

"What better revenge than to keep you trapped in the darkness you shunned and feared, not unlike the gothic tales of your girlhood. To force you into a hopeless situation – to pledge to 'the Phantom' _your soul_ in marriage and what I knew was most sacred to you? To exchange vows with a terrible stranger, this ogre, a beast and a devil, who though you didn't know it was also the man you swore you would have to be insane to love? To have **_that man_** wholly possess you –"

"But – you wouldn't touch me! Not at first. You wouldn't even kiss me after our wedding ceremony until Meg asked. **_I_** had to force your hand."

"You were my sole weakness, Christine, my constant temptation. The only manner in which I **_could_** stay firm in my vow of reprisal was to stay as far from you as the situation allowed. To convince you and myself that I wanted nothing physically to do with you." He laughed in bitter self mockery. "Even that failed in the end."

She shook her head in stunned confusion. "You gave me back my music –"

"Entirely selfish. I wanted to hear _you_ sing. Wanted _you_ to star in my operas." A half truth. He had also wanted to rekindle her hope, to see the sparkle relight her eyes and give her back the dream they once shared.

"And what of these past weeks of silence?" she whispered at his fervent admission. "Would you have come back for me if I had not changed your opera? Would I have _ever_ _even_ _seen you again?_"

"The moment I saw you through the window in the arms of that foolish boy – as Erik from The Heights or The Red Death or The Phantom of the Opera – it made no difference what mask I chose to wear," he growled, his eyes sparking fire and making her dizzy by the look he gave. "I vowed then to have you with me and planned this night of my return. Who do you think came up with the idea for the Bal Masque and told Giry to inform the managers? I loathe such balls where society delights in an escape of masks, when to me a mask is a daily prison – but I needed an event where I could appear among the masses and steal you away. Your foolish little change to my opera had little to do with it."

"So you engineered your appearance and my abduction as the terrifying Phantom to once again upset Raoul in your desire for vengeance?" she whispered, silently begging him to disagree and say what she so desperately needed to hear.

With his hands still trapping her, he gave her arms a little shake._ "_To hell with the bloody Vicomte! I would have done so, Christine, because_ you are MINE__**! **__**MY** wife! **MY** heart and **MY** soul!_ **_You belong to me_** – _**and no other man shall have you!**"_

In the next breath, her dark Angel swooped low and crushed his mouth to hers, anger and passion ruling his kiss that set her blood to flame.

Christine whimpered in relief as a new fire raged, her hands moving against his tight hold in their desire to be freed.

He released the extreme pressure of their kiss, no longer painful, yet still deep and hungered as if he wished to fuse their body and souls in that moment. Desperate to relive their symphony in the night, she arched her body against his, aching to feel the strength of his desire.

So much yet posed a mystery – but one thing was clear: all she wanted, all she now _needed_ was to feel her fearsome Phantom – her magnificent Erik – possess all of her body and share with her his passionate soul, again to make her complete. To burn away the terrible distance between them – the recent hopeless weeks and months, the long agonizing years – to escape all masquerades of the heart and mind and come together again as Erik and Christine from The Heights, forever and always bound to each another.

This, she needed as much as she needed air to breathe…

He had re-entered her world by force and through disguise, and in less than the span of a week had once more become her sole existence. He was flawed and he was perfect, in body and character, and she accepted him for all of who and what he was since she was no better. He was her inscrutable Phantom, her dark Angel of Music, the desired husband of her soul and heart. Never would she live one more day or night without him –

_Never would anyone make her!_

He released her wrists, grabbing her around the waist. Elated to be freed, she flung her arms around his neck, clutching the back of his head, and kissed him with a fervency and fire so long contained.

God, she never wanted to contain it again!

His hands tore at the buttons along her back while she impatiently wrenched at the gold clasps of his tunic waistcoat running down the front. Their actions were frantic, their hunger for each other painful. Potent. Uncontrolled in its desperation. Giving no care to caution he ripped the frothy pink dress from her body, tiny buttons flying, delicate cloth ripping, at the same time she tore into the belt around his waist. The heavy sword fell with a clatter to the stones, and she immediately seized the waist of his breeches, pulling at the foreign fastenings in impatience.

All that mattered was to be one with him again, and she silently damned all material that prevented it, his own curses to have her free and be freed coming voluble.

With fevered kisses and long limbs entangling and discarding they soon tore away all impeding barriers of costume disguises, save for his mask that had no cord for her to grab, and she feared wounding him if he'd glued it to his face. Bared to one another, flesh to flesh, they held fast, while Erik pushed her back against the wall of rock, almost smooth in this area of the cavern, and dragged her leg up around him.

_"Wait…"_ he rasped when he realized.

"_No_…_I will_ **_never_**_ wait again_." Her eyes burned into him as she clutched him more tightly in emphasis. "My God, Erik – I have waited _what seems __**lifetimes**_ for you – for this! _I want you NOW!_"

She braced her arms on his shoulders and he gave a low growl at her proclamation that mirrored his own mind, stunned by her fervency as she lifted herself on her toes, trying to climb him. With his hands cupping her bottom, he pulled her up to meet his need. Fiercely she wrapped her other leg around his hip while he drove deep into her drenched softness, fusing them as one.

Christine tilted her head back and gave a little gasping cry at the long desired sensation of his solid fullness inside, stretching and completing her, while he held her off the ground pressed between the wall and his hard body.

They clung to one another, without moving, as each remembered the knowledge of rapture now that they were again joined.

Erik groaned with the experience. God, she felt like a glorious fiery heaven in this cold dungeon of hell! But the demands of nature clamored for more ... and in this matchless obsession alone, surrender was a most coveted privilege.

"Hold tight to me, my Angel," he whispered, walking around the bend of the corridor to her bedchamber nearby, the sole reason he'd told her to wait; he knew they were near, and he feared the cave wall would scrape her delicate flesh.

She could not seem to touch him enough. Her fingers clutched his scarred back and shoulders as she held to him, wrapped around him like warm velvet, kissing his neck and jaw, every area she could reach beneath the mask, even the mask itself, with fervent little kisses. He sank with her to the freshly made sheets and rolled with her so that she lay on her back. Her legs remained tight around his hips as he grabbed her wrists and swiftly pulled back to plunge even deeper. She gave a sharp cry, grasping at him, her heels pushing into his skin. Even in his passionate desperation to take her, he hesitated and pulled away almost to the tip, fearing he had hurt his beloved Angel.

"Christine…?"

"_More,_" she rasped.

"Are you –"

"Oh God, Erik – MORE!"

With a feral growl, he slammed downward, giving her what she begged for. She moaned and tightly clung as he drove into her, the feel of his hard flesh pushing in so far threatening to make her come unraveled. Liquid fire roared through her veins, the ecstasy a blissful agony as his flesh pounded his need into hers past all thought of a mercy she had no desire to receive. Panting, she clung to him, urging him, their breathless cries of pleasure and want echoing like music throughout the chamber. Her head spun, the pressure in her loins extreme. His hand took possession of her breast as his mouth seared her throat…

Christine squeezed her eyes shut as the world faded into a brilliant explosion, pinpricks of light and shadow flashing behind her eyelids. Erik cried her name hoarsely, his own release coming with a force that seemed never to end.

In the aftermath of their turbulent reunion they held fast to one another, sweat-soaked bodies fiercely trembling, their breaths harsh and unsteady. Neither wished to let go of the exquisite minutes or of each other. A long moment passed before she spoke.

"After all this time," she whispered in soft incredulity, letting her legs slowly slide down his hips to his thighs while using her arms to keep him close. "we are _finally_ together … without mirrors or walls or hedges, or your damnable distance to block us - "

In answer, he lifted himself on his arms, only to grasp her head and kiss her into silence.

She savoured the intrusion, his warm, wet kisses a worthy substitute to speech. Only when they both grew breathless again did he pull back to look at her. In the dim light of the chamber, the sight of his eyes burning like flames amid the black sockets of his mask of death might have struck fear into the heart of anyone else, but Christine could only smile at such a cherished sight as her beloved, so close that they were one. She lifted her palm to cup his cheek beneath the ridged plaster of the skull.

His own smile came shaky. "Perhaps I should be the one to pose concerns of disbelief."

He broke their deep connection, but before Christine could protest his absence, he rolled to his side and again brought her close. His fingertips gently traced the tiny beads of perspiration from her shoulder to her collarbone, making a necklace of shimmering moisture he drew down along the center of her breasts and to her navel then up again.

Even with all they had shared, she could not help the embarrassed warmth that came over her already flushed body as his gaze leisurely moved over where his stirring touch lingered and his eyes took in their fill.

"So, Monsieur Phantom, do my 'womanly attributes' at last please you?" she half teased, using his former words against him.

He chuckled and briefly dipped his head to touch his lips to one pert nipple in a kiss. She gasped at the sweet sensation.

"Most assuredly," he whispered, slowly lifting his head, his eyes flicking up to meet hers. "You are the most beautiful and desirable woman I have ever known."

His soft, sincere words assuaged her stung pride of former months and in the knowledge of his rare praise, Christine felt almost giddy with delight that she truly did please him.

His fingertips went to her temples and stroked away the hair that clung to her damp face. His attention strayed from her tangle of long curls to the bed beside her. A strange look entered his eyes, the smile fading from his lips.

"Erik…?" she asked with a twinge of worry. "What is it? What's wrong?"

In answer he picked up a black scrap of material from near her head and held it up for her to see. She immediately recognized his old mask from the Heights.

"You kept it…why?" His voice trembled as if fearful to know, though his eyes demanded an answer.

She smiled gently. "You really need to be told?"

"I would hear it from your lips."

In disbelief she heard and saw the trace of his incredible doubt and endeavored to put it firmly to rest.

"It was the last thing to touch you, the only part of you I had left," she whispered. "Keeping it with me, next to my heart and beneath my pillow almost made it feel as if you were with me – though it was a poor substitute to fill the void of your absence. If nothing I have said or done tonight can convince you of my love, then let this proof be my witness."

He stared at her, his eyes misting with her words, his expression altering into one of realization struggling with disbelief.

"I was sorely tempted to abandon my plan to take you from the ball tonight - something occurred." His jaw tightened at the memory. "Then I found this and later heard you sing. I saw what you did to my opera. And knew I must see you once more. I had to know. But feared to believe …."

He shook his head, his strangled words coming to a halt. She could not bear to see him suffer so and lightly touched his shadowed jaw.

"What I did to your opera – I know I was always meant to be Aminta, that you wrote her as me and you as Don Juan. I did not only change things to make you come forward, Erik. That was me singing _to you_, expressing what was in my heart. _For_ _you_. Even that night after I first came here and you heard me when I was scrubbing the stage – that song was _for you_."

He flinched in shock and she softly nodded, tracing her fingertips lightly down his neck to his chest. The damp wiry curls there teased her skin, and she trembled with another wave of undisclosed longing. "I was singing to heaven to my angel, who has always been my inspiration, wishing he was there with me. I have only ever sung for you. _You_ are all I ever wanted … then, and now. When you died, I died. A Phantom found me, brought me to his tomb, and gave me life again."

Pressing her hand over his heart, she lifted her eyes to his. "There was never anyone else. There never could be. I fell in love with my Phantom captor and found you, the other half of my soul."

Christine noted his amazement, the struggle in his damp eyes, the desperate need to believe, and it distressed her that even now he wavered with indecision.

Suddenly he moved to sit up, bringing the coverlet over her body, then rose from the bed and immediately turned to lift her up into his strong arms.

She gasped in surprised confusion, linking her arm around his neck for balance while with her other hand she grabbed to her breasts the escaping coverlet that slid down with his motion. For the first time since they entered the chamber, she noticed the shambles it had become. Her mirror and chair were smashed and the torchlight from outside her room picked up fragments of glass that sparkled on the table and the ground.

"Erik – _what happened here?_"

He gave an offhand glance to where she gazed before looking back into her eyes, finding more to interest him there.

"This room, with its trappings of pain and deceit, belongs to a former tale. It is time we write a new one together, and I take you to where you belong."

"No more fairytales," she insisted quietly. "I only want what is real. With you."

Eyes of shimmering gold held hers another breathtaking moment before he nodded softly.

"Then that is what you shall have, Christine. I wish to give you all that is within my power to give."

He walked naked with her out of the bedchamber and down the passageway in the direction of the main lake room … their costumes of a masquerade left unnecessary and forgotten in a distant corridor.

**xXx**

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**A/N: Gotta say, I thoroughly enjoyed writing that chapter ;-) ... we have now reached a major turning point into the next and last phase of story - with more secrets to be revealed, more E/C fighting and loving (that's a given lol), more twists and surprises, and the ever-present danger of enemies that would try to destroy them and their love… **

**Thanks again for the reviews!**


	65. Chapter 65

**A/N: Loved the reviews- loved that you loved the reunion. This chapter deserves the rating …  
**

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**Chapter LXV**

.

Christine stirred, her first awareness being that her entire body was swathed in soft warm silk that bore his appealing masculine scent. Her second: the wild, passionate dream of her masked lover had been no dream at all.

She smiled to recognize where she was, having resided in this bed for a week without leaving it when she was ill, then opened her eyes ... to see the awful semi-nude statue draped with a black veil standing in its post nearby. There was something so chilling about those empty eyes. A she-devil in ebony and gold, an icon to his judgment of the entire female gender ...

Or only to her?

Frowning at the memory of his bitter revelation during their explosive reunion that spanned the cavern's corridors, Christine noticed strong light flicker behind and turned on the pillow to see.

That side of the bed curtain had also been pulled a third of the way back, a tall multi-branched candelabra near the head of the bed. And standing close to that stood her husband, the Phantom of the Opera. Her Angel, Maestro, Lover ... Erik.

Not entirely sure which title fit him at the moment, she tried to gauge his mood, which could change with the next breath. His expression was, as it so often became, an inscrutable mask. Shuttered to conceal emotion, as his exchange of the dark silk mask he now wore covered a little over a third of his face. His only other article of clothing, a robe of embroidered ebony silk, cascaded loosely from his powerful shoulders and was belted at the waist. She noted the black pigment had disappeared from around his eyes, the skin faintly glimmering there with whatever oil he had used to remove the black.

If his visible features and the expression lines near his mouth bore no traces of discernible feeling, his eyes seemed to swim with it ... or burn. She inhaled a breath at the message in their brilliant gold, her blood warming to be consumed by his fire again.

"How-how long have I been asleep?" Christine cursed the stammer in her voice. She had no fear of him, but he could unbalance her with just a look and make her question everything. "Are we safe from discovery? Will the police be looking for you?"

Beyond the desire, a doubt she wished to interpret brimmed in his eyes; she had seen it ever since she declared her love. His hunger for her, he in no way hid, a pleasant change; but the secrets within his mind lay veiled and obscure. A distant curtain that often fell over his eyes all that hinted as to their existence.

"No one will find us. You slept for almost two quarters of an hour. Long enough for me to exchange masks."

She drew her brows together. "And that was really necessary...?"

"Yes, Christine, it was necessary."

The Phantom regarded her warily where she lay like a beautiful nymph within the sea of his maroon silk sheets. She huffed a quiet breath, displeased with the last of his explanation, and he recalled her insatiable curiosity always to know more. Ever since they were children, he had shielded that wretched part of himself from her and for good cause. Other than her most recent unmasking, he could count on one hand the number of times she had seen his face since their childhood. Always by accident, always fleeting, never in adequate lighting to let its full curse take effect. And the last time he had made sure of that.

His face incited fear; he had no desire to make Christine run from him again ...

Or worse.

His breaths grew shallow while his eyes ravished her. She lay with her glorious riot of thick curls rippling out over his pillow, her body glistening and naked, the sheet clinging to every lush curve. She was the embodiment of the vision he had so often dreamed in the unfulfilled nights when he thought he would never have her as his to possess. Her hair tangled and messy from their lovemaking, her skin flushed with it. Her lids still heavy from slumber, with thick black lashes that brushed rosy cheeks and shielded midnight eyes glowing with love and desire. For him. A truth as yet unthinkable but no longer a myth buried in the chamber of his darkest imaginings.

He moved to snuff out the candles, but she reacted with equal swiftness and intent. Her hand clasped his forearm to stop him.

"No - don't."

The darkness. Of course. A childhood fear never relinquished, and who could blame her when he had preyed upon her strongest weakness in his cruel lust for revenge?

"The darkness will never again harm you," he said gently, speaking to her as he had to the child she'd once been who awakened him with her own nightmares. "I won't let it."

"I want to see you."

Her soft, firm words took hold and shook him. Instantly his muscles contracted, his eyes narrowing in wary suspicion that she might suddenly reach up and seize what shred of protection he had erected for_ her sake,_ but her eyes were not focused on his mask. They looked intently at his collarbone even as she modestly tucked the sheet beneath her arms. Her trembling hands moved to the lapels of his robe to softly part it further.

His hands caught her wrists holding them captive.

"It's only fair, Erik. I know you can see me whether we're in the darkness or the light, but I don't have that advantage ... please ... I – I _need_ to see …"

The warmth of her palms were suddenly flush against his skin, her fingers spreading their touch in a slow arc that stilled his instinctive protest, and a barely discernible moan slipped from his throat instead.

God, he craved this, to feel her warm hands keen against his flesh, and he decided to allow her eyes only that which she truly asked, knowing why she did. He released his grip on her, dropping his arms to his sides, aware of what she would soon find on the pathway her fingers took, with the light of the seven candles to reveal.

Her heart and breaths quickened as Christine stared at the expanse of gleaming pale skin above his sternum, her fingers spanning its warmth and smoothing the sparse hair there, the motion taking his robe with it. Never had she seen her Phantom unclothed in strong lighting, never so close. Touching him, watching where her hands touched, intrigued and excited her feminine sensibilities, and she wondered if it was the same for him, when he touched her; if it stirred his excitement when his eyes followed the trails his hands and fingers made in darkness. Oh, if only she had the ability to see as well as he did, no matter the degree of light involved!

Always before, her overall sight of him naked had been from a distance in a moonlit lake, or hazy glimpses while joined together with him in passion, always in dim caverns or dark chambers with light flickering from adjacent rooms. Even at The Heights, in all their years together, she had only seen him once without a shirt, the weather darkening with storm clouds, and later in the kitchen with the hearth fire burning low.

Since they first came together in physical union, Christine had always been fully immersed in the moment and never really looked in detail at his magnificent body, a vision of alluring strength and barely contained power that never failed to rob her of speech or breath. Now she was eager to learn all of what previously escaped her knowledge ...

Her attention was drawn to his left side near his shoulder and a puckered circle of darker flesh the approximate size of a halfpenny. At an angle a few inches below, another could be seen. Without being told, she understood. Her fingertips brushed with tentative care against one remnant of the horror.

"I suppose I am fortunate that he was such a bad shot to miss all my vital organs," the Phantom said in an attempt at dark levity, the quaver in his voice extolling the true nature of his feelings. "Have you seen enough? Is your curiosity now satisfied?"

Intending to step away and extinguish the flames, he froze when she again moved.

The gentle press of her lips to the old wound made him hiss and clench his hands into fists at his sides. His eyes fell shut against the rise of moisture filling them.

"_Christine _…"

Undeterred by the husky warning in his voice, she moved her lips to the next bullet scar, the emotions she felt so far removed from the pity he shunned and detested. She knew guilt for the words that made him go and joy that he now stood before her and gratitude to the Almighty and the angels for sparing his life, his healed wounds a vivid testimony to his narrow escape with death. Her fingers clasped the broad slope of his shoulders inside the robe, and she felt the scars there and along his back, scars she knew extended to his waist, scars that Henri had put there and the gypsies unknown to her with hearts just as vile.

Pressed flesh to flesh, she had known other scars ...

Belonging to the Phantom with a dark and dangerous past unfamiliar to her, she had quietly accepted their existence.

In the knowledge that he was Erik, Christine was horrified by the realization.

Any return of girlish timidity died a swift death as she lost hold of the sheet tucked over her breasts, the silk sliding forgotten down her body while her hands fumbled with his sash, swiftly pulling it loose and parting the edges before his hands could stop her.

"**_Christine_**_ - **wait**!_"

An intense rush of heat inflamed her face as her eyes were instantly drawn down to the thick maleness of him, his desire apparent and growing as she watched in rapt fascination. He clenched her below the shoulders tightly, painfully, then released his hold with an annoyed flourish. The action made her remember her purpose and she tore her eyes away from his lower anatomy to seek what she must know. She had no need to search. The answer was laid out before her, appallingly clear.

Along his sides, down his stomach, partially hidden within the light matting of his hair, everywhere she cast her eyes, she was grieved to see scattered there small irregular random patches of faint white and pale red along with lines of similar color; short, long, some raised, some shallow, some thinner and curved as if by a malicious twist. Burns. Blades. God knew what else. Another circular puckering of flesh beneath his ribs gave evidence to a third bullet of shots fired, and she bit back a sob, not daring to let it air. The canvas of his beautiful body told a story of incredible horror that only the most evil of men could have painted, a story she was certain was continued after he left The Heights. More scars covered his slim hips. A vicious dark slash raced from the outside of one leg to his inner thigh. Another dipped below his navel and down his stomach, disappearing into the black curls that crowned his manhood. Dear God, had the beasts tried to _castrate_ him?

Her eyes wet with tears swiftly traveled up to the middle of his chest and a line of pink barely visible amid the fine hairs, no more than a faint mark compared to the rest of his horrible scars, but this one distressed her most. This one ripped furrows through her heart and threatened to choke her with hot scalding emotion ...

This one terrible mark that had severed his flesh and was made by her own devilish hand.

"Are you at last satisfied?" he whispered harshly, though she could feel the pain in his voice throb throughout his body. "_Foolish child_, you always did wish to tempt the Fates and unveil the monster. You wanted_ what **was** **real**._ **_Well, now you have it!_ **And what do you see, Christine, besides the ogre who is so desperate to take you and again make you his own?_ A soul_ _to be pitied_? **_A thing_ **_to be **feared**?!_"

He hissed in a short, uneven breath through his teeth as her lips ghosted against the dagger's scar they had made together over his heart, at the same time her hands took gentle paths up his hips to his sides.

_"Dear God, Christine ..."_

Her touch burned him even as it soothed. Her mouth slowly roamed his body, searing with tender devotion every scar within reach, her hands smoothing over their puckered trails as if to heal them in the warmth of her compassion.

"I see," she whispered against his skin, with the same reverential response a pupil would give her esteemed master, "a man who would not surrender. A courage that flouts all cowardice and foolish ignorance ..."

This was not a show of debasing pity. Pity he could manage, undermine, reproach. This - this was something he felt powerless to know how to fight.

His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, longing to bury themselves in her silken tresses. But he felt too undeserving to touch this mortal goddess, too stunned by her affectionate response to do more than helplessly stare ...

"No, Christine ..." His deep words came strangled as she continued raining the gentlest of kisses over his worthless flesh, "I am _not_ a man to be praised or admired. What kept me alive in those dungeons of hell was _sheer hatred_ ... **_hatred of_**_ **you**!_"

The sick admission tore from his black heart in a wretched whisper, and he experienced the whiplash of his sharp words as she lifted moist eyes of profound sorrow up to him.

"Where passion is extreme, there exists a razor-fine line between love and hatred," he explained in low, biting words. "I cursed you every day, with every torture they inflicted ..."

... while in the empty silence of the nights and in his darkest dreams, he pled for her undying love.

The tears slipped from her eyes, down her cheeks and over her jaw, burning tracks into his soul.

"Hate me, Christine. **_Hate me_** for all I've done to you," he begged. "**_Curse me!_** Call me a beast, a tyrant, a devil – for that is all I am. You were **_right_** to speak those things! I am nothing but wicked and ever will be. I don't deserve an angel's compassion or forgiveness ..."

She bowed her forehead to his chest, slowly shaking her head. "_You_ are my Angel. You gave me back my music, my voice. My very soul. Without you in life, I lost the will to sing."

Her quiet admission jarred his senses, and his own tears slipped free. Dear God, **_he_** had been the reason that her heavenly song was silenced?

His chest grew tight from his ragged breathing. His hands moved of their own volition before he understood, and he clutched tight fistfuls of her ringlets, forcing her head back to look up at him.

"I _abandoned_ you – I _tricked_ and _deceived_ you. I am not worthy of such regard! My God, Christine, _I **drugged**_ _you_ and took you from the light, forcing you to dwell in this tomb of darkness! I **_terrorized_ _you_** and showed no mercy. I _demanded_ **_your soul_** in marriage then **_slaughtered_ _your innocence_ **–!"

"NO! I came to you willingly and **_gave_ **all that was mine. My soul was already yours to claim ..."

He fell hard to his knees on the ground before her, sobbing and clutching her fiercely to him. His cheek pressed to her lower belly, his breaths singeing her thigh. She gasped at the intimate contact and cradled his head to her skin, her fingertips tangling in the cord of his mask.

"I love you, Christine, _God_ _how_ _I love you! Heaven help me, I never stopped ..._"

His low, whispered confession felt tangible, trembling with fervency through every fiber of her spirit and echoing into the deepest chambers of her heart.

"Never stop now," she begged.

"Never ..."

He turned his head to press a soft kiss into her thatch of curls, making her gasp. His warm lips floated slowly over the soft curve of her lower belly, the round of her hip, the joining of her inner thigh, his tears of hope smearing across her skin to dry there and become a part of her. Overcome with such swift changes of high emotion, from shattering compassion to stark desire, she tightened her gentle grip in his hair and arched toward him in silent plea.

"_Love me ..._" she whispered.

"_Always ..."_

His lips sought her need, brushing her moist womanhood in soft kisses, his tongue tracing gentle designs along the length of her that made her burn hotter even as shivers tingled down her spine.

Bestowing a deliberate suckle to the tiny pink nub of her sweet flesh and bringing from within his songbird a splendid, melodic cry, one he swore never would be silenced again, the Phantom moved his attentions up her slender body, pressing passionate kisses to her satin skin. His mouth brushed the creamy underside of her breast as he slowly rose to his feet and shed his robe, bringing her back to lie with him on the bed.

Christine opened her legs, eager to receive him, to have him relieve with his presence the dull ache that throbbed inside, but to her frustration he delayed their joining.

"Patience, my beauty," he whispered, his voice a silken caress. "Savour the moment. There is so much I want to teach you, that I _will_ teach you ..."

He brought his lips around the top of her breast, his tongue circling the crest with gentle pressure, urging it to a harder pebble, while she gasped and moaned, her nails scraping his scalp. His left hand slowly moved up her side to shape her other breast against his large palm, molding it to his passionate design, and he teased the nipple between his fingers as his mouth tenderly devoured her.

She cried out, barely able to breathe, much less to manage speech at this new onslaught of tender passion. Not wild, impatient, or desperate as when they had always come together before, but deliberate and sweet ... so achingly sweet that it produced a slow, steady fire that surely melted the very marrow of her bones ...

Yet before she lost all sense of time and place there was something more to be said, something more to be done, something she also needed so desperately ...

God help her, this would be the hardest thing yet.

**x**

Christine gulped in a shuddering breath as she lifted herself slightly on her arms, the stirring sight of her beloved giving her such incredible pleasure heightening her pleasure to an even greater degree.

There was much to be said for candlelight.

"E-Erik, I love you with, with all that I am …" Her words were acknowledged with a gentle nip and deep suckle, and she gasped. "You-you know that now, w-without doubt – yes…?"

He gave another slow suckle before letting her glistening nipple slide from his mouth as he tilted his head to look at her. In the pool of light cast by seven candles she could see everything. His eyes had lost most of their gold but burned just as brightly. His fingers stilled though he did not lift his hand from her other breast. _Seeing_ him touch and kiss her flesh so possessively, so intimately made it even more difficult to breathe and recall exactly what she wanted to say.

"I believe I have been convinced of that knowledge." His husky tone gently rasped against her senses, his voice a strong vehicle of seduction in and of itself.

She clutched his arms to bring him upward and he crawled closer, immediately taking sweet possession of her mouth. She indulged for long moments in his potent kiss, the deep meeting of their tongues – before tearing her lips from his lest the delicious spell he wove with his dark passion completely consume her.

"I would never hurt you – you know that? Please say you know that …"

"_Christine … _what are you trying to say?"

Her name so beautifully spoken from his lips stirred sensation further and she prayed his voice would remain so calm.

"I- I meant what I said about wishing to see you, Erik …" She took in a deep breath. "… to see _all_ of you."

He tensed as her meaning grew apparent and she locked her legs around him, to keep him near, suddenly afraid he might try to move away. He was stronger, of course, but she had gained strength and would fight his escape if she must.

She could not explain this sudden desperate need to bare all of him. Despite the changes time had made she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this was her Erik. And if anything that made the necessity more compelling.

"At the Heights I let you have your way about it … but I'm no longer asking as I asked for years," she breathlessly stated with firm conviction. "I don't even wish for this to reassure. Because if you don't know my heart by now, and that it's constant, I feel hopeless to convince you. My reasons are purely selfish... After all that has happened, _I_ **_need_** to see you …"

And just like that, the curtain fell over his eyes, making her want to scream in frustration.

She would be damned before she would let him hide from her again!

The Phantom looked at her with solemn regard, though inside his emotions churned.

He was not surprised by her appeal. Hundreds of times in their youth she asked him to remove his mask. Sometimes his stout refusal led to an argument between them. Twice she had ripped it from his face. Once, when they first met and she could not have known. Once, since they met again, and she knew full well.

"And what of the curse, Christine?" He barely kept his voice controlled. "What of the curse that comes upon the unfortunate and the damned who see this face?"

Christine knew that her husband was an intelligent man, a true genius, but he'd been so deeply mired in dark superstitions as a child, evil slurs that brandished their own lasting marks on his soul. Humanity's reactions to him throughout his lifetime had done nothing to help disprove the ancient gypsy legend. But she had long stopped believing in foolish myths, and never took that one into consideration.

"I have seen your face," she countered gently.

"Not in full, not so that you would remember," he insisted. "And the drug I gave you that night erased any memory that might remain. I made sure of that!"

She cradled his cheeks in her hands, careful with her words. "Erik, you do _not_ have the evil eye. You are _not_ cursed. People who see you are _not_ cursed."

"No?" He scoffed out a laugh. "Christine, a man **_died_** after having seen the horror of my twisted face. Yes, you heard correctly," he said when her eyes widened in shock. "They ripped my mask away when I was presented to the Shah. A man in the palace court clutched his heart in terror **_and_ _died right before my eyes_.** It was then the Shah feared I was marked by one of their devil gods who had sent me and I was promoted from prisoner to guest. He gave me private rooms in his palace, fearing his god would also strike him down if I was not treated with respect."

Her heart breaking for him, Christine sought words to counter such a nightmare experience.

"Having **_not_** seen your face, I experienced the **_worst curse_** imaginable – _a life without you_. **_I _**almost died, Erik. I ran out into the storm, begging you to come back to me the night you left, and grew ill with a high fever – so ill, the minister delivered last rites."

His eyes widened in horror and she solemnly nodded.

"I dreamt of you coming to my bedside and ordering me to fight, to live. _You_ brought me back."

His eyes grew wet, his expression altering into one of growing disbelief. "I had the same dream – of you. I was in a delirium, after I was shot. It was so vivid, so real ..."

"... I thought you were there," she finished his sentence with him, feeling the same awe come over her.

Dark eyes locked with golden ones in astonishment to know that even with their bodies lying distant and near death, their spirits at the threshold to surrendering life had found and reached out to one another.

Suddenly his eyes dimmed.

"I lost much blood," he went on. "Two shots fired from a distance, one close; that bullet went through me. I should not have lived, but I fought my way back, for you. Later, when I was again aware, I sent the man who tended me to seek you out, secretly, at The Heights, to tell you I was alive. Joseph told him you had moved to The Grange, that the Vicomte had come one morning and carried you away. I left for Persia that week."

She gave a laughing sob at how cruel the Fates could be. Mingled with her dismay of this delayed revelation was the relief that he _had_ tried to contact her.

"It's not what you think. Oh God, Erik! I was ... undone. I thought you had died ..." She shook her head, unable to speak of that horrid year of her black madness, not now.

"Don't you see? This proves it," she insisted. "We are one being, split in half at the beginning of time, like the story you once read to me long ago, both of us having wandered the earth to find our mate. The missing half of our souls. It's been that way with us, from the night of the storm, when you first came to the Heights. We've always been drawn to one another, bound together. _I pulled away your mask then and **did not**_ _die_. Nothing evil befell me – I knew **_great_** **_happiness_** in those years with you. And now **_you_** **_saved_** **_me_** from a living death, by finding me and bringing me back to you. I have never known such bliss, when I've been with you, **_after_** having seen your face. There is no curse attached ..."

Braced against the bed, lying against her, his arms trembled, and he clutched handfuls of the silk. Despite such dreadful and astounding disclosures – to know that she _had_ _actually_ _almost died_, as she screamed earlier in the passageway in angry words he had not then taken as literal, to know that she, too, had fought her way back – for him –

– even so, he wrestled with what she required of him this night.

He did not fear that she would be repulsed and draw away; she had proven herself stronger than that. His Christine was the most fearless woman he'd known; even as a child she had great courage. Nor would she scream. She never did so before, not because of his face – only when in a fury at him for his trickery. She might inadvertently gasp or wince at the horror of the sight; he fully expected that. He did the same when faced with his grotesque reflection, on the occasions he had no choice when applying and removing his half mask. What terrified him was that she **_was wrong_** and would die in his arms, her heart still weak from her recent illness, the manifestation of horror too considerable to bear. Even when she ripped his mask away weeks ago, the bedchamber had been much darker than it was now.

"I made you forget this face, the drug I used _made you forget_," he insisted hoarsely, his tears dripping downward to splash upon her skin. He desperately tried to make her relent but knew that determined look, knew that she was as stubborn as he. "A man _died_. Others have been terrified, their minds irreparably damaged. My face is a **_weapon_** I have used to paralyze my prey or make them flee ..."

She expected his every attempt to dissuade her and winced at his anxious words of self loathing, but they only strengthened her resolve.

"I don't fear anything about you. Even when I thought you only the Phantom, I felt close and did not fear _**you,** _ By all accounts I should have. Even that first night in these caverns, when I was terrified by the darkness – I **clung** to you. You have made me feel more alive in these last months than I have felt in years! Nothing wicked will happen to me –"

"This too is a foul darkness inconceivable to bear."

"Your face is not a darkness. Nor is it a curse."

"How can you be so sure when history reveals otherwise?"

"I just am."

He grimaced at such simple, childish, foolish logic.

"It's not a pretty sight, Christine. And in such bold light as this, it cannot be so easily scoured from the memory."

"There are things _much_ uglier in this life than your twisted face, Erik."

Her honest words tried to soothe while her fingertips stroked his damp jaw. Her legs pulled him closer against her, his shaft burning hard against her thigh. "I am tired of the fairytales and masquerades – they are all pretense and shallow. I told you, I want what is real, what is solid. I want to see the entirety of who you are, the man behind the mask. There is no monster here ..."

Her eyes glowed with a sudden burst of determination, making his muscles tense as if to draw back.

"I told you, I am _not_ seeking your permission. I only thought to warn you first, so as not to take you unaware." She gritted her teeth through her tears, pressing her hands to his cheeks. "My God, Erik! I have wept oceans for missing this face, for thinking I would never see it again, until the torrents of my tears bled the deepest of grooves into my heart."

Her voice trembled as did her fingers which crept up to touch the edges of black silk. Her demeanor strengthened at his solid resistance.

"You **_owe_** me this, Erik, after all the dark years spent apart that we could have had together. After those terrible first weeks of fear spent in these cavern dungeons as a victim to your cold indifference – after lying to me and deceiving me – **_this_** is what I require of you! **_This_** is what I need to make things right between us! – And if you won't remove it, I will - I swear it."

The quiet and emotional challenge was tossed out, deafening in the air between them.

"There is nothing I can say to rid you of this damnable curiosity?" he said bitterly, and she saw the terror leap into his eyes when he recognized his defeat.

"Nothing."

"Dear God, Christine – _I **cannot** lose you!_ **_Not now!_**" He squeezed his eyes shut, another rush of helpless tears shaking him to the core, and pressed his mouth desperately to hers in terrified persuasion, silently begging her to surrender this dangerous folly.

"You will _never_ lose me," she assured once he lifted his head, so they could again breathe. "In distance and in death, I've always been yours ..."

Before he could grab her seeking hand or break away from her hold so tight around him, he felt the mask lifted from his face and gulped in a rasping sob.

Christine let out a soft little cry of horror but did not let go.

**x**

With her eyes so full, at first she could not see well. She rapidly blinked away the tears, as her hands pressed to either side of his head.

Nothing could have prepared her for how awful his face truly was in the unforgiving light ... how horrible. The sheer _brutality_ of it. The flawless left side of his face had not suffered a mark, and she had innocently believed she would witness the same on the right side ...

Her heart felt as if a blade had been thrust through and she struggled to breathe.

She had expected the wax-like folds of twisted flesh, the skin stretched almost transparent in places near his eye, exposing part of his upper cheekbone beneath a thin surface, his flesh ruddy and coarse in places, the blue veins and thinner red thread-like vessels throbbing on the ridge of his forehead and up into his scalp. She had known of the absence of any firm flesh for a true shape of a nose on this one side, it being a misshapen lump that melted into his mottled cheek and disappeared beneath a lower eyelid that slightly drooped, though he kept his eyes tightly shut ...

Her girlhood memory of so long ago had kept those facts hidden deeply, safe within her mind, though they had blurred in detail, losing hues and form. An image never fully remembered but never forgotten - and now could be colored in at last.

What she had **_not_** thought to see was the raised red scar left by a long thin burn angled across his distorted cheek ... three scattered scars from thin blades, like those on his body, puckering the scars he'd been born with ... the deep pits covering his flesh in places as if tiny sharp bits of metal or glass had been crushed into it. Scars on top of scars. The cruel handiwork of men.

"Those **_devils_**," she cried softly, no longer able to hold in her anguish. "My God! What did they do to your dear, sweet face?!"

Frozen by her words, the Phantom could draw no breath into his lungs. _Dear..? Sweet!_ Had the curse of his affliction sent his Angel into the very mire of lunacy?

He had no time to consider the terrible prospect for in the next instant he felt the most foreign and overwhelming of sensations against sensitive skin that had been starved and deprived of human touch for a lifetime – the gentle pressure of warmth blessed his ravaged cheek where before there had been only pain. The softness of silken lips moved slowly along the scar left by a hot poker, leaving their own brand of torture, so sweet, tears not his own wetting his scars.

He took in a deep, ragged breath, his ability to think completely stolen from him.

"_My love_," she whispered, never ceasing to kiss each scar of his mangled face, as she had with his body. "_My darling ... See me, Erik?_ _I am alive ... I am here ... I am with you ..."_

His bewildered mind tried to made sense of her coaxing whispered words, even as he began to recognize her actions. Her lips brushed against the scars _man_ had made, in the process touching his deformities but treating this cursed side of his face as if it matched the flawless side, as if its original grotesqueness truly did not matter or disgust her. She kissed the tears from both eyes he had yet to open, fearing if he did, this would all be but a dream and vanish, again leaving him in his bed, forlorn and alone and without all hope.

_Please God, don't let this be a dream!_

The fervent wish no more than soared through his mind when her hand smoothed along his shoulder blade and down his back, gently trailing over each whip mark, brushing to his hip then slipping between their bodies. Her fingertips tentatively brushed the length of his shaft, and shocked to feel another touch from her to a place she'd never before crossed, his eyes flew open at the same time a raw, hoarse moan of disbelief and anguish and desire tore deep from within his chest.

Erik's powerful reaction to her soft, innocent seduction made Christine shiver deeply and fed her fledgling confidence. She closed her hand around his thickness, all the while she kissed all of his face, running the tip of her tongue along his skin to catch his tears, as her own heedlessly fell. In her gentle hand he throbbed harder, and she wiggled her hips in appeal, burning head to toe for him as she guided him to her need.

The sight of his damaged face had done nothing to decrease her desire; instead these last minutes had caught her up in a whirlwind of love for him, so intense, she felt swept away by its storm and eager to resume passion now that they were at long last fully bared to one another.

"Make love to me, Erik," she begged, gasping as the broad tip of him made soft contact with her wet flesh. "_I need to feel you inside me..._"

A maelstrom of emotions impossible to contain or decipher coursed through the Phantom's soul. Her cry echoed his own deep hunger and still overcome, he acted on base instinct alone. In one slow and steady push he filled her. She clutched his trembling shoulders, crying out in passion as her head fell back to the pillow with a soft thud and slide of silk.

Sheathed tightly in her drenched heat, for the first time since she pulled away the mask the Phantom dared to look at Christine's face.

Her skin was flushed and dewy, a wet shine in her dark eyes – _alive, so very alive_ – and not one bit of fear or revulsion to be seen. An adoring smile lifted her rosy lips as she looked into his eyes ... into his face. _His face! _His accursed, monstrous face! It was the epitome of his dreams, that she could look at him with such love, such pleasure and desire, without the shield of his mask. A dream ... once an unreachable fantasy, a dark fairytale of Gothic proportions – made genuine ...

... and within his very grasp.

With a low, strangled sob, he buried the tortured side of his face against the silkiness of her neck where it met the slope of her shoulder. Her soft warmth cosseted the whole of his highly sensitive skin at once, the silken brush of her curls incredible against his malformed scars. Never had he felt anything like this on the condemned part of his flesh; her lips, her skin, her hair ... Nothing, _nothing_ could compare to the physical perfection that was Christine.

He rubbed against her neck and she shuddered all the way down to her spine. Fearing he had at last overstepped the bounds of her tolerance, he reluctantly began to pull his head away. Her hand came up to press against his flawless cheek, keeping the twisted side against her softness.

"No, don't move yet. Just another moment," Christine breathed. "Holding you like this, with no mask in the way, holding you so deeply inside me, it's all so perfect, Erik. All I ever wanted ... my God - _you're alive, alive_ _and truly with me_ ..." she whispered in awe, still grasping to fully acknowledge that astounding truth as the tears rolled into her temples.

Her fingers threaded through his hair, holding his scalp, and she shivered again to feel him pulse with life inside her, a vivid reminder of the passion again waiting to be unleashed. She arched against his hips unable to curb the desire.

Nonplussed, the Phantom began to move inside her, slow and sensual, the heated edge of passion for his bride soon burning away his tremendous shock at her beautiful defiance and bold lack of restraint. So grateful to the all-powerful deity that had seen fit to spare her life, he was willing to design and erect cathedrals in tribute. He kissed her warm neck and the beating pulse in the hollow of her throat, covering it in his tears then moved to brush her seeking lips with his in wondering adulation.

"Christine ..." He cupped one large hand against her side, moving it down to her hip, and wrapped his strong arm around the curve of her spine bringing her closer. "My Angel ..."

"Say it," she panted, a deeper rose flushing her face as she met his every fluid stroke. "My name, s-say my name like before."

"_Christine ..._"

She shivered at the silken tones he drew out as a musical caress and tightened her hold on him, bringing her palms to press hard against his back. "_Say what you always used to call me._"

At last he understood, and bending low to her ear, he whispered, "_My Little Angel ..._"

Her eyelids fluttered as she cried out and the world fell away ...

.

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: Ah, at last. :) And now everything is wonderful… **

**(muahahaha) **

**Some might think it foolish how Erik- the all-powerful Phantom afraid of no man – was so caught up in the fear of what would happen to Christine if she saw his face. But at this time period, the belief in superstitions was still very prevalent, made even more so for him with the dark background he suffered ... I purposely wrote this unmasking scene as a nod to their first encounter as children and also as a resolution to their last day in the stables at The Heights, almost as if in both their minds it picked up from there. So now more has been cleared up, with regard to his past, his motives, and the mystery of all that happened years ago…with more revelations yet to come. ;-) Hope you enjoyed it****. Thanks for the reviews!  
**


	66. Chapter 66

**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews! :D And now, after so many chapters of dark and angst and ripping away at the emotions - it's time for some lighthearted fun and naughty fluff, with a tad bit more revelation. ;-) This chapter deserves the rating.**

* * *

**Chapter LXVI**

**.**

The next time Christine woke, it was to the delicious sensation of absolute warmth pressed to every inch of her back … along the length of her curled legs … and wrapped possessively around her waist. Flesh to flesh, as intriguing to awaken to as it was stimulating, she exulted in this novel experience and what was surely the precursor of each morning to follow. Without opening her eyes, she snuggled even deeper into the heat of his hard body, feeling both smooth skin and scarred, and smiled softly to recognize the strong proof that perhaps her dark lover had also awakened and was not still immersed in misty veils of slumber…

Wickedly she rocked her hips from side to side, slow and enticing against that prominent part of him that made her feel so connected, so whole, and was rewarded when he soon growled deep, burying his bare face in the back of her neck, his hand straying from her waist and past her belly to the center of her desire. She gasped with a contented murmur as his fingers skillfully began to plumb her moist depths – when a sound near their blissful hideaway brought her eyes flying wide open.

She gasped in horror. Beneath the sheet that thankfully covered her to a few inches above her breasts, she grabbed his wrist.

"_Erik – stop_," she whispered anxiously.

"You have roused this beast, my beauty, and now you must suffer the consequences…"

Her face heated with his silken, seductive threat. "No – you don't understand – it's Jacques! He's _standing right beside the bed._"

The boy stared directly at her, a wide smile on his face. Gleefully he bent down to wrap his arms around her neck in an enthusiastic hug. Unable to reciprocate for fear of moving a muscle, lest the sheet dislodge and reveal their nakedness, with one arm trapped beneath the pillow and her other hand still clutched around Erik's wrist in an effort to deter him, Christine desperately hoped this to be some bizarre dream.

Her great embarrassment faded to mild relief when the boy straightened to stand. But he did not move to go. A few candles had blown out during their slumber, the light in the chamber now dim, and the bed curtain was still pulled back only a short distance. With the sheet in place and that part of the bed past her waist in shadows, at least Jacques could see nothing…

Her beastly Phantom kept his hand warmly in place; worse, as if he had reached the same conclusion he resumed slowly to stroke her.

"_Erik_!" she hissed, "what are you doing? Did you not hear what I said?"

"I did." He kept his face buried in her cloud of hair. "Smile and tell him to go play."

Her eyes fluttered at the gradual, firm strokes of his long, slender fingers and the fire he was steadily building inside her. _Dear God _…

Jacques could not have caught what she said to Erik as rapidly as she'd spoken, but she did not know if she could slowly form words for the boy to understand, could form _any_ words with what her wicked husband was doing to her! And with his face unmasked, Erik surely would not lift his head to speak.

She smiled at the boy then let out a soft, aching groan of pleasure as her dark seducer slipped his finger partially inside her and stroked there. Her hold tightened on his wrist, her thighs clamped around his hand, which she then realized did nothing to prevent his seduction, only providing a trap to encourage more, and he did, that errant finger occupying her fully as she captured another groan between bitten lips. She did not dare struggle to remove his hand from its moist cradle, certain if she did the sheet would dislodge and give Jacques a full view of her upper curves she certainly had no wish for him to see. Thank God he could not hear the sounds being made beneath the sheet!

"You are so terribly, horribly wicked and cruel," she seethed, barely moving her lips so the boy would not try to read them. She kept a trembling smile intact for Jacques, so he would not suspect – though certainly he was too young to even know to suspect a thing.

Erik chuckled against her nape, then slid his teeth along the skin at the join of her neck and shoulder. "I know…"

Christine shivered at the warmth of his damp breath, at the naughty playfulness of those two, low, silken words, at his every stirring action – and quickly mouthed the directive to Jacques to "go play."

The boy nodded with another smile and scampered off to the main lake room.

Erik moved with the supple speed of a wildcat, pulling his hand from between her legs and rolling her onto her back while bringing his body over hers. With his freed hand he whisked the bed curtain entirely closed and with his leg he nudged her thighs wider apart.

"_Erik_ – are you _mad_?! The boy is in the next room!" she cried out, thankful he could not hear them.

"Better there than here," he darkly chuckled.

In the shadows, with the candlelight shining through the velvet nap of the curtains, the hue of which was so brown it almost looked black, it was difficult to see his face clearly in the muted glow of the enclosure, though his eyes, even in darkness, were easily seen and burned like molten gold. Her hands and fingers exulted to feel both firm and ridged skin as she cupped his jaw. He had slept without the mask, and she hoped she could persuade him to make this a nightly ritual.

She gasped as his hardness brushed her soft, drenched flesh. "But what if, what if he comes back?"

"He won't. He will conform to the pattern he has for over two years and stay put."

"But – but _what of the girl?_" she whispered and groaned intensely as he slid his length deep inside her. "Sh-she will awaken soon and come through here…_oh, God_," she breathed as he began to move with gradual ease, his heated fullness stroking far to her vulnerable depths.

"Then I suggest you keep very quiet, Madame," he whispered against her ear like the very dark and wicked Phantom he was. "Consider this your first lesson learned."

But Christine heard little of his velvet suggestion as she clutched his scarred back and fully lost herself in her unmasked lover while all the cares of the world once again melted away…

x

"That was not quiet," Erik chuckled near her ear, softly panting as she did.

Christine blushed at the memory of the cadenza of her sighs of pleasure, escalating to the high point of crying out his name, and she slapped the back of his shoulder in mild disgust.

"You make such a lesson entirely impossible to carry out." Nor had he done anything to curb her blunders, instead seeming to encourage her soft moans and sighs and certainly making no effort to conceal his.

"Perhaps, with practice, you will learn to excel…"

His lips moved to brush the tender part of her skin, beneath her ear, his moist caress gliding lower along her neck, and she moaned.

"…or perhaps not… Either way, it makes no difference to me."

Christine shuddered and pushed his head from its downward trek, though with her legs she kept him held firmly against her, keeping her most insolent and beloved Phantom deeply inside her body.

She had earnestly attempted to mute her pleasure, but the naughtier part of her disposition, a dark match to his own, could not help be satisfied that if the girl was awake, she had heard Christine stake her claim on her husband and would be discouraged to try again to steal him from her. Indeed, as close as their bedchambers were, and with the hollow caverns that produced echoes from elevated sound, it would not have been the first time she might have heard their passion play. The wicked thought brought a rush of heat to her face. For the most part, she felt awkward and embarrassed that it was entirely probable the girl _had _heard them at some point – and Christine had no wish for another occurrence.

"We really must come to some other type of arrangement, Erik. Jacques and Jolene cannot just waltz through our bedchamber at any time of the day or night!"

"A curtain across the entrance perhaps…." He languidly brushed his lips against hers. "Closed when they are not allowed inside…"

The image of the small boy and his sister waiting behind the curtain that Christine had a sneaking suspicion would be closed often did not satisfy either.

"I think they should find somewhere else to sleep, another chamber distant from this one," she said. "The girl chancing upon seeing … anything – that is bad enough. But the boy is so young, an innocent. The boy…"

Her eyes opened wider and she poked her finger into his chest, emphasizing each word.

"… _who_ _is **not** your son!_"

His brow lifted wryly. "You just came to that conclusion, my dear?"

"Don't mock, Erik," she whispered, all ideas of finding viable rooms dissolving in the stark realization of what she once believed – **_not_** being true. "Unless you bedded some maid in Haworth during the few hours you were sometimes absent from The Heights while working for Joseph, that small lad in there does not come from your loins!"

Eclipsed with the pain of believing he had fathered Jacques was the immense relief to know he had not.

His gallingly amused gaze went to her lips then again to her eyes. "You are so beautiful when you are angry. You glow with such spirit and fire…"

"Trust me, you do **_not_** want to see me truly angry," she snapped, not at all appeased by his attempt to mislead her with compliments, rare as they were.

He chuckled. "As if I've never had the experience."

"You **_lied_** to me and made me think he was your son!"

His light smile faded at her vexed frown.

"Yes, and I _admitted that_ in telling you of my plan of vengeance for you. It seemed wisest at the time, to deter you from your objective. I had no wish for you to learn the truth, which you were hell bent on discovering."

His tone lost its playful edge, and Christine now dearly regretted that. She had no desire to argue but burned to know the truth.

"Well then, since he _most definitely_ is **_not_** your son, who is he –?"

"_Shhh_ …" He pressed his finger to her lips in caution, his eyes giving the quiet command for silence that his lips did.

Christine lay perfectly still, scarcely daring to breathe. From beyond the bed curtains, soft footsteps approached the doorway of the inner corridors and walked past their bed into the main lake room. Relieved that this time she and her husband were fully enshrouded by the dark velvet bed curtains, well, on the side that mattered at least, she briefly closed her eyes. Jolene.

"Tell me about the boy," Christine whispered against his finger, as she looked into his eyes that had regained a modicum of their gold.

"Not here. Not where we can be overheard."

To her disappointment, he moved away and rolled to his side, and she instantly felt the emptiness. Her earlier protestations to him were false and foolish, when all she wanted was to be absorbed in his embrace.

She grabbed his arm before he could slide back the curtain. "When?"

"Get dressed."

Her face again grew hot with a sudden stark realization.

"But – _I_ _can't_ get dressed," she whispered fiercely. "I have no clothes! And what I once wore is in some faraway corridor in pink ruins!"

A wicked glint filled his eyes as he calmly let go of the velvet drape, the return of his mild exuberance both a pleasure and a frustration to see, given the subject.

"Well, my dear, that does present a problem..." His eyes made a leisurely perusal of her body barely covered by the twisted sheet. "I can think of worse things than to keep you captive here with me, concealed behind these dark curtains …"

The gravity beneath his words that only partially teased affected her intakes of breath.

"You are intelligent, the high and mighty Phantom of the Opera," she insisted quietly. "You cannot expect me to believe that you did not think this through!"

His casual shrug attested to ignorance – if not for the light that danced behind those devilish golden eyes.

"You said that you planned all of last night – at the ball – for weeks." She glared at him from her prone position. "You brought me down here to _remain_ with you. Surely, you must have prepared in advance and brought _something_ for me to wear!"

He tilted his head in somber perplexity, though the smile she could just make out teased the corners of his mouth and proved his suggestion of inferior preparation false.

"It is true, I did concoct an elaborate plan, a most decided triumph. But in that plan, I had no intention of destroying your lovely costume gown." He pulled at the top of the maroon sheet, plucking it up in the crook of one finger and exposing the upper curves of her breasts. "You could always drape yourself in this. I seem to recall you have done so before…"

She slapped his hand away. "This is not one bit amusing, Erik. I am deadly serious. I am completely naked – _I don't even have one stitch of clothing to wear!_"

"How keen you are to remind me…" He again lowered himself over her, his hands bracing the pillow on either side of her head, his legs straddling hers. Like a wildcat teasing prey, his lips brushed against her shoulder. "Though I assure you, my captive little songbird, I need no such reminder ..."

His soft kisses traced with slow measure along her skin, his chin and lips brushing the sheet the fraction needed to lay claim to her breast. His lips closed around her taut nipple and she groaned, then bit the side of her tongue to try to quench the telltale sound.

_"Erik!" _she whispered in a stilted breath at the slide of his tongue. Desperately she clasped his shoulders, whether to beg him for more or bid him to stop, she had no clue. Hearing the clatters of Jolene prepare breakfast reminded her of the other two cavern dwellers in their midst, wide awake and in the very next chamber. Even the knowledge that they conformed to daily ritual and the boy's deafness would prevent him from hearing anything did not make these moments any less scandalous or shocking … but, heaven help her, it felt so good ….

His head lifted enough to capture her uncertain stare, his eyes burning like twin flames, all hint of amused teasing and careless mockery gone. She inhaled a dizzy breath at the somber earnestness in his gaze now filled with undiluted lust.

"You have no idea how long I have wished to have you naked and in my bed, Christine, how I never thought this day could occur – the endless years of waking night after wretched night to unfulfilled emptiness – wishing you were there. Right where you are now. Wanting you so desperately. And I say this with the utmost conviction – I don't _give a damn_ who knows it!"

Much later, after he thoroughly convinced her of that fact, the Phantom slipped away from their enclosed dark haven while his bride fell back into exhausted slumber.

x

The next time Christine opened sleepy eyes, it was to see Erik on the edge of the bed, sitting beside her and fully dressed. The candles had again been lit throughout the room, along with a torch on the far wall, all of which brought a golden glow to a greater part of the chamber.

Flustered to know he had been watching her, she took in his debonair appearance, his fine suit of clothes that accentuated his lithe form while hiding lean muscle, and what she had come to accept as his corporal signature – a veneer of dark elegance that concealed a strain of wildness, barely contained, and hinted of slumbering danger. The jacquard gold silk vest, black cravat, and dark waistcoat attested that he had been above. From her first stay in these caverns, she knew he dressed formally for outings or lessons, preferring the more relaxed shirtsleeves and trousers with or without a loose robe for all else, and she doubted he had come to demand that she sing.

Again he wore the half mask of an ivory hue, the second time she had seen it, and though the full black was more cavalier and wild, reminding her of the bandit he was, she preferred the stark elegance of the white – if she _had_ to choose, since he seemed determined not to go without a covering. With this mask, the entire left side of his face was visible – an option never allowed her before. Even at The Heights, the black silk masks he had crafted covered his entire brow with how he had secured them around his head.

Holding the sheet to her breasts, Christine moved to a sitting position. Unable to resist touching him, she reached up with her left hand, drawing her fingertips along that discernible part of his forehead while noting its perfect slope. The masks he designed were molded for his features but did not follow all true lines, since the thin glazed material suggested a perfect, straight nose, which could only be said for the left side. And she loved him all the more for his imperfections – because they were what made up _Erik_ – as she had always known him. Indeed, she could gaze upon his unmasked face all day in sheer happiness, the scars constant proof he was alive and with her, and she wished she could run her fingertips along that hidden part of him now. The prospect was tempting, except that again the mask seemed actually to be _adhered_ to his face and she had no wish to remove it and hurt him if that was so.

"Have you brought me something to wear?" she asked hopefully, her senses tingling at the warm glow in those beautiful eyes of gold.

"I have." Taking gentle hold of her hand, he brought it down from the discovery of his face. She felt something cold slip over her third finger and smiled in delight to see her wedding ring he had replaced there. "I trust you are not disappointed?" He kept possession of her hand in his.

"Not at all, I have missed wearing it … though I hope you don't expect me to wear this and nothing else…"

He chuckled. "Do not tempt me, mon amour …" At the vexed lift of her chin due to the repeat of his earlier game, he relented. "Alas, I know such a dream cannot last. But it was so delightful to keep you trapped under your dark angel's wing well into the afternoon."

The lateness of the hour came as no surprise. The past weeks without him she had slept seldom or so restlessly and had needed the extra slumber.

"Mon amour …?" she inquired, not remembering that word.

"My love." He motioned across the chamber, and with relief she saw one of her dark blue woolen day gowns lying across a chair.

She smiled at him, his endearment draping her in soothing warmth the gown could never give.

"I like when you speak in French. The way your tongue glides over the syllables…" She shivered a little in pleasure. "You must teach me more of the language, Erik, if we're to stay in Paris. I know some words but not many."

"I remember." His voice was somber.

"Yes, and it's a _good thing_ I did learn _that_," she stated firmly, aware they both referred to the night he slipped and called her his Little Angel in French and thus ended his hurtful masquerade.

He gave a resigned nod. "I see now that perhaps it was."

She leaned back against the wall and crossed her arms over her chest. "Oh, there's no 'perhaps' about it. Had I known it was you from the start, we could have saved ourselves months of heartache – and that truly would have been 'for the best'."

At her emphatic words and reminder of his deceit, he gave a little disbelieving shake of his head, his smile a weak half twist. "I thought I was giving you what you most desired, Christine. It was my way to atone for hurting and defiling you, to let you go above earlier than planned and remain where you wanted to be, in the light."

She winced at his blunt words and recalled the intense self blame he exhibited upon his discovery that she was a virgin. She had given to him freely, anticipating every moment of passion, but still he thought himself unworthy. Guilt-ridden because of his old plans. And a beast.

She sighed, knowing she had done nothing to make him feel otherwise.

"I suppose I did demand to leave these caves quite often."

"Quite."

"And I made no secret that I felt trapped, and sought escape…"

He nodded somberly. "Stating each day your explicit wish to be returned above…"

"Yes – _before_ I came to love you as the Phantom. Believe me when I say I would much rather spend an eternity down here in this damp darkness with you, than to live one more day in sunlight without your presence. These past weeks have been dismal, living within a dark cloud no matter how bright the sky, and I never want to relive that experience!"

Doubt struggled for dominance in his eyes, but a glimmer of relief broke through. "I never intend to let you go again, Christine."

"You had better mean it this time, Monsieur. Because if you dare break your word to me once more, I shall have to come back and haunt you until you again let me in your tomb." At the similarity of the vow spoken in their youth, they shared a faint smile. "But tell me again, Erik, _why_ did you keep your distance those first weeks after you took me above, when _I know_ you heard me cry out for you and beg you to come back?"

"Is it so important to go through this again?"

"Yes, I wish to know everything. I feel you owe that to me."

He nodded curtly at her soft reply. "You have seen how difficult it is for me to keep my hands off you, now that we've known one another intimately … had I approached you then, I would have taken you back, Christine, and I did not think you wanted me once you knew who I truly was. I thought you would wish to return to _him_." At her protestation, he lifted his hand for silence. "No, let me speak, while I can say it. I needed time and distance from you to achieve the indifference I struggled to attain years ago, little good it did now. You were everywhere, in my heart and my blood. Memories of your warmth and beauty lived in each corner of this cold, hollow dwelling. The compromise of the lessons in voice was a never-ending trial of endurance and torture – always wishing to break through both the thick chapel wall of stone and the wall I had built up around my soul – to once and forever claim you."

She sighed, recalling those punishing days. "I wish you had. I was so angry, more so that you had again abandoned me than that you played your cruel tricks. At least at first. But if those harrowing weeks made you finally come to realize that I do belong here with you, I suppose it was worth it."

"Then I am forgiven?" he asked quietly.

"You were forgiven the moment I again laid eyes on you."

He leaned forward to softly press his lips to hers. She grabbed the lapels of his waistcoat when he would have moved away and prolonged the kiss, her lips clinging to his.

"I advise you to think very strongly about what you're doing, mon amour," he whispered against her jaw, smoothing his hand against her head of wildly tousled curls. "Else if we pursue this, I might be tempted to keep you here the remainder of the afternoon and throughout the evening, held captive to my every whim."

His tone teased but she heard the thread of fear that sometimes lingered behind his wry, careless words, now that she recognized fear for what it was.

"You never need feel as if you must keep me trapped again, Erik. These caves with you are _my freedom_. I am exactly where I want to be. With you. I _love_ you…"

His eyes fell shut in wonder. "To hear such words from you, words I never thought to receive…Christine, you cannot know what that means to me."

"Actually, I think I can ..."

They exchanged a soothing look laden with empathy that bruised hearts translated and at last understood.

.

**xXx**

.

"Will you tell me about the boy now?"

Christine broke the comfortable silence as she finished the small luncheon of bread, cheese and fruit Erik had brought her. Much to his amusement, she had decided to remain in bed and break her fast there, this once.

"I know how you came upon him, saving him from that bully at the hotel," she went on, "but did you _really_ know his mother? If so, where did you two meet? And what happened to her?"

At her barrage of questions, he shook his head in quiet amusement. "Patience, Christine."

"But why, Erik? Why will you not speak of it _now_?" she ended on a little whine, slapping the bed beside her. She wished he would just tell her. He knew how she preferred not to delay the inevitable and despised tiptoeing around the truth.

"It is a lengthy story. One revelation will lead to more questions and I want to guarantee there is no chance of being overheard," he explained, handing her the goblet he held and watching as she finished the wine. "The girl does not always announce her presence, and she will return shortly. You should get dressed, now that you've eaten and there's no chance of you swooning from malnourishment. I would hazard a guess that you've not been eating much this past month…"

She shrugged. Food had held little appeal with her heart having yearned for his presence at every breath and her mind confined in a prison of worry and confusion.

"You have lost some of the weight you had regained, though thankfully you no longer resemble a walking skeleton as you did when you first came here."

She grimaced at his blunt assessment, thinking she had not looked that bad. His fingertips stroked from her temple to her jaw in warm caress. When he touched her like that it was difficult to retain any degree of annoyance at his words or lack of them – with regard to his frequent evasion to illuminate the mystery of the boy.

"Will you tell me tonight," she asked, ignoring his change of subject, "when we are sure to have the chamber to ourselves? And I have a host of other questions as well…"

"In time you will know everything," he agreed, his eyes grave. "I have no wish to keep further secrets from you, Christine. There is much to be said by both of us, many years to fill in, many gaps, which undoubtedly will reopen old wounds and tear new ones. I suggest, for the sake of what sanity I may yet claim and what heightened feelings may result for both of us, last night an example to consider, that we initiate further revelations slowly, each moment given its own time."

Somewhat mollified and surprised by his wise counsel, so converse to the madman he thought himself, she reluctantly nodded, knowing he was right. The range of pivotal emotion from last night's firestorm still left her feeling weak.

"Patience was never a strong attribute of mine," she admitted.

His eyes gleamed in wry mirth. "No, it wasn't. And to answer an earlier question, the remainder of your gowns are in your wardrobe, which I will move into this chamber soon, along with your dressing table."

"Lovely. They can sit where that awful statue now resides." Christine gave a small, flippant wave of her hand to the ebony and gold monstrosity on the other side of the bed. "I wouldn't be the least bit upset should you decide to move it. Perhaps to the storage room in the distant corridor? It would make a fitting sentinel for the cell, or it could sit in the room as a method to provide punishment should you need to lock the girl inside again. Better yet, it can find a home at the bottom of the lake to scare away any dangerous fish …"

Her Phantom laughed in genuine amusement, and his mouth flickered into a twisted grin.

Christine's eyes eagerly fastened to his lips, her heart somersaulting with elation at the sound. When was the last time she heard him laugh like that, so spontaneous and carefree? Certainly not since she'd come to France. Not even when they shared their last companionable dinner together, over six weeks ago.

In the revealing candlelight the sensitive arch of his upper lip and the slight fuller pout of his lower lip displayed their familiar mocking tilt at the corners – and she could now see that the full black mask had been an essential part of his disguise to deceive her. He had matured, his features stronger and more defined, more masculine, but his face – now that she _could_ _actually_ _see_ most of it with the white half mask – was still so very much Erik.

"I take it you do not care for Nyx, the Greek goddess of nighttime and shadows?" he asked in amused nonchalance.

"She has snakes all over her!" Christine wrinkled her nose at the very idea. "That is not conducive to restful sleep."

"It did not prevent you from achieving deep slumber." At the narrowing of her eyes, the Phantom hid a grin and turned his attention toward the statue. "Regardless, those are not snakes. That is how the craftsman chiseled her. It only appears that the folds of her gown and waves of her hair are serpents in dim lighting."

"What there is of her gown," she huffed with a frown. The veils of black scarcely covered the indecent statue, put there only to accentuate her full nudity. "I think I should prefer a representation of the daylight. At least it would not have what_ appears_ to be snakes on it."

"Nyx gave birth to Hemera, the Day." He studied Christine where she sat beneath the sheet with her knees bent and arms crossed. "She gave birth to other children as well; among the crueler ones – Moros who personified Doom; Thanatos, Death; Ker, Destruction; the Keres, Indignation and Retribution; Apate, Deceit …"

She grimaced. "That hardly makes me desire the statue's presence here –"

"And Hynos, Sleep," he went on as if she had not spoken and his mention of the god of slumber would justify the statue's presence in their bedchamber.

"Her eyes are empty and chilling – she has no pupils –"

"Empty and chilling. Yes, they are that…" A change came over his countenance, his own eyes glittering like hard chips of glass as his mind took him to some dark place Christine did not know how to reach.

"Erik…?"

His bitter gaze cut to hers. "Since I have also denied the sun and become a creature of darkness who must evade light and capture from those who dwell there – becoming no more than a ghost and a Phantom – is it not fitting that I should have such a statue always in my presence, to remind me of where I belong?"

"You don't _belong_ to the darkness, Erik. We're only hiding in it for a time… someday, we'll find daylight again."

He looked at her as if she'd not spoken and Christine wondered if he saw her at all. She hated when he pulled away and belittled himself and wished to know his true motive for the thing's placement.

"Was it because of me, and what you felt about me? The statue," she added when he looked at her at a loss to understand.

He studied the piece of statuary then Christine's face, the cloud of his bitterness diminishing as calm made a visible return. "It did serve as a reminder of my plot of vengeance against you and others who opposed me, if that is what you ask."

"A plot you no longer intend to wield against me," she persuaded and reached out to lay her hand over his.

His eyes fell shut at the slight question in her voice and he sighed in remorse.

"Yes, my Little Angel, all plots of retribution against you are at an end." His admission was dryly amused. "It was a futile battle from its inception. Its demise began the moment you stepped foot into my underworld … and then I heard you sing once more …"

Glowing inside to hear his old endearment, she smiled to know that she as Persephone had indeed captured and won Hades' heart. Just as her soul had been drawn to him that first day, despite thinking him only the Phantom and a stranger, it was a relief to hear that he likewise had been affected by her presence from the beginning.

She leaned toward him in appeal.

"Then would it not be a fitting start to our married life to remove such a dreadful reminder of the past from _our bedchamber?_"

"As I will need to fit your furniture in here, you do make a valid point, my dear. Consider the statue consequently removed."

Delighted that he finally agreed, Christine wrapped her hand around his nape and pressed her lips to his, but when she pulled away, his hand flattened against her naked spine to stop her retreat, reminding her of his earlier threat to keep her there all day.

"Monsieur, I really must protest," she said with a light giggle. "I have need to bathe and dress. But first, there is one final matter that needs our immediate attention. What I spoke of before – of the new living arrangements for Jacques and his sister…"

"I can see that I shall have to prepare a chamber elsewhere to safeguard your feminine sensibilities. Though it does make one wonder how in some foreign civilizations entire families sleep in one bed, and how the man and his wife do cope …"

Her cheeks went as red as persimmons. "That is **_not_** happening here!"

"Especially if they must remain quiet," he whispered in her ear as if she'd not spoken. "A lesson you would need much time to perfect, my little songbird, if this morning's enchanting recital was an example."

"Oh!" Terribly incensed and equally embarrassed by his indecent teasing she struck her palms against his shoulders – thus forgetting her grip on the sheet. But utterly delighted by the return of the easy banter they engaged in at The Heights – once he brought her close to his body before she could retrieve the silk cover, she only narrowed her eyes and smiled at him.

"If you are quite through torturing your wife, monsieur…?"

"Is this torture?" he asked in mock surprise. "And what of this…?" Keeping one arm held tight around her lower back, with his other hand he brushed the tousled curls from her shoulder and pressed his mouth to the crease of her neck.

"Erik," she squeaked. The delightful touch of his moist lips, along with the erotic feel of her bare skin pressed against his clothing – the sensations of rough and silky cloth aided by the stirring heat of his hard body beneath fabric's thin shield, all of it tingling to her flesh – was almost too much to bear. She moved her hand that had found its way to the back of his scalp and gripped his hair in a fist, pulling his head back.

He tried to look penitent, but failed miserably, his eyes instead beginning to burn…

If she did not put a stop to this, he most certainly never would, and there was much to be done before evening's imminent arrival. Her fault, as much as his, that they had tarried all day. At this rate, nightfall would soon be here, and she would _not_ welcome a repeat performance of this morning. Their bed was not a stage for any audience wandering through its chamber.

She dipped her lips to his for a quick kiss then pushed against his shoulders, again attempting to retreat, in the process arching her back. His eyes flicked down to her breasts, only made more prominent and now on display inches below his face. His fingertip brushed along the underside of one lifted globe and he bestowed a kiss to the tight rosy crest, making her gasp and causing a flame to singe beneath her skin. He then repeated the act with the other, this time ending with a gentle suckle that made her bite back a little cry and wonder if perhaps they _could_ quietly tarry within the closed bed curtains for one more hour…

This time, he decided differently.

With evident reluctance he removed his arm from around her spine and reached to the foot of the bed for his wrapper. Helping her into it, he tied it closed, even the light brush of his fingertips sending sparks to her sensitized flesh. Christine forced conscious thought through the familiar haze that had descended… Move ... Yes, they must leave this bed so as to move Jacques and Jolene...

"Give them my old chamber," she suggested once he helped her stand, "at least for now. That bed is certainly big enough for them both to share. Then they will have their own bath chamber, as well."

He nodded. "A most auspicious proposal. Enjoy your bath, my dear. I will see to matters elsewhere."

She watched him walk away then turn. "With regard to the poor misunderstood statue, of the three options you presented, what is your preference for Nyx?"

_Poor and misunderstood, indeed!_

"What do you think," she said dryly.

He chuckled and again moved away. Her heart beat a little faster to see him go. To recall how he had left her other times in their past… harsh times, when he did not return swiftly. Or return at all.

"Erik…?" she said before he could disappear through the passageway.

He turned in question to look at her. Levity made an abrupt shift to solemnity, a waiting tension thickening the air between them as he lingered to hear what she would say.

"Last night, when I saw you on the stairs and knew why you were there, for the first time in weeks I was able to breathe."

Glowing flame and glittering darkness held through the contact of seeking eyes.

Hurried steps brought them to the middle of the chamber where they pulled each other into swift embrace. They held close for several moments more, the novelty of coveted harmony and togetherness, so long absent from their lives, a thing to be grasped and never again carelessly mislaid...

Later, Christine shut her eyes and relaxed in the heated water of her bath – her faint smile blooming into one of delighted relief to hear a sudden huge splash fill the icy lake.

In the knowledge that darkness had been submerged, there was room for a flicker of hope at last.

xXx

* * *

**A/N: Like I said, mostly fluff and fun, but things will get more intense and angsty soon enough. Hope you're enjoying their reprieve… (muahahaha) ;-)**


	67. Chapter 67

**A/N: Thank you as always for the reviews. :) Glad you guys have been enjoying their reunion so far…and now…**

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**Chapter LXVII**

Once he swept all fragments of the mirror glass and disposed of it, the Phantom made plans to move Christine's belongings, confident that with the aid of a cart, hoist, boards and pulleys, he could transfer the furniture up and down the flights of stairs of the main lake room, the secret passage that led there too narrow to use in transfer. The center mirror of the dressing table would need replaced, but until he could find another pane of reflective glass, the side mirrors would suffice for her use.

That morning his entire focus had been for his bride, and he had shamelessly tantalized her, enjoying her coy, flustered outbursts. But he, too, shared her desire for privacy as a married couple and did not like the idea of Jacques and Jolene entering their bedchamber unseen and at will. When he chose the location of his bedroom, the Phantom did not foresee the possibility of intrusions, since he never believed that Christine would actually share his bed. His plan to abduct her had been only a germ of an idea birthed on his return to England from Persia but had not fully developed or commenced until after he had seen her attend the opera with that fop, sitting in Box Five.

It was still difficult to believe that his long held dream involving his Angel had transpired when the wisp of hope had fluttered away so often before, evading his desperate reach.

Upon returning to the main lake room and seeing that Christine was absent, the Phantom took the stairs to their bedchamber.

She wasn't there either.

And neither was the dress.

In the next breath, the old terror surfaced that she once again betrayed him and escaped his lair. It was with difficulty the Phantom suppressed the instantaneous fury that tore through him and closed his eyes, fisting his hands near his hips and willing the darkness away.

Achieving aloof indifference had thus failed when in these last months he tried to use the method as a defense against his powerful feelings for her, mocking each fierce attempt. But in matters of his rising fury, he equally found the technique a viable shield of sober calm to which to cling. Odd that she had been the impetus to employ restraint when hate was extreme, and now that love made its tenacious foothold, she was still at the core of his desire – this time to curb his destructive wrath.

Christine had not changed _him_ or his irascible fits and wild swings of mood, but both in hating her _and_ in loving her, she had given him the motivation to change.

He had far to go to achieve flawless results, and for one so scarred inside and out, perhaps never would attain such a lofty goal. He often still reacted before thought and allowed violence free rein, her destroyed furniture from the opera of an Austrian empress testimony to that. But after all of what occurred last night, he must somehow again attempt to find trust inside his shadowed heart for his Little Angel, now his true wife. She was once again everything to him; a veracity that had been callously hidden but never altered…and he would do anything for her and to keep her.

At a sudden, distant splash that came from the bath chamber, he realized his implicit mistake, now grateful to have surrendered to hesitation before throwing himself into the sudden tumult that had previously raged inside him.

Turning softly on his heel, the Phantom allowed Christine more time for her soak and returned to the main lake room. He approached the boy who sat with his back to him on the organ's staircase, but paid no attention to Jolene who stirred something on the kitchen stove.

He had not willfully spoken to the maid or once looked at her since he unveiled the truth of his affliction, loath to see any remainder of terror or disgust in her eyes. He did not care what she thought of him, lumping her with the rest of humanity and its intolerance of ugliness; he simply had no desire to see fear's existence. A fraction of his mind knew relief that she had not suffered unduly from the Curse of the evil eye, but certainly she must be having horrific dreams of his macabre countenance. He should not care but oddly did and supposed he would always feel responsible for the girl, in part due to his long-ago transgressions against her. At the time of his unmasking he acted out of maddened frustration, forcing her retreat, to put a final halt to her unceasing and unwelcome hostility toward Christine and her ignorant pursuit of his physical companionship. A lesson now surely learned, however brutal.

Perhaps he should take pity and also give her the drug to compel forgetfulness, if it was not too late to induce that haze of mind. Or, he could persuade Jolene hypnotically. After Persia, he'd sworn never to use his skills as a tool to manipulate or a weapon for punishment again, but if he decided to aid her in this, his voice would be used as a method of consolation, as he had also once broken that vow out of necessity, in his lullaby to comfort a distraught Christine.

"I must go to market," he heard the maid say in quiet uncertainty behind him. "Jacques wasn't feeling well earlier and I did not wish to leave him."

It was their second exchange of curt words spoken since the night before the Bal Masque. Since then, the sum of his words to her composed the order to take Christine's clothes from her trunk he'd brought down hours before the masquerade and hang them in the wardrobe.

Without turning to look at Jolene, he spoke in curt acknowledgement. "You have the coins I left and the key to the secret door?"

"Oui, monsieur."

"Do not lose this one."

To Jacques, he smiled in genuine affection, bending his knees to lower his body at eye level with the boy, who sat on the second step. Jacques looked up with an answering smile as he stroked Faust, who for once seemed tolerant of the boy's awkward ministrations.

"Stay here. Do not leave this room. You may play with the cat until luncheon," the Phantom ordered and signed slowly.

The boy nodded and the Phantom tousled his hair. "Good lad."

He stood to go then paused.

"On your return from the market, you and the boy will be moving from your rooms into what was Christine's bedchamber," he directed the maid, over his shoulder, again without looking at her.

What sounded like a silver platter hit stones, producing a strident ring. Like a black lightning bolt of fur the cat sped for the passage of corridors leading out of the main room. Jacques darted up with a protesting grunt, eager on the little beast's heels. The Phantom slowly turned with narrowed eyes of irritation and looked at Jolene for the first time in two days.

Flustered, she held eye contact for scant seconds before awkwardly dropping her gaze to the ground and the platter with figs strewn beside it.

"Begging pardon, monsieur," she mumbled. "You are throwing us out?"

He compressed his lips at her sheepish, timid behavior, disgusted by such fear. Knowing from what source it truly stemmed.

"You may remain within these caverns, if you wish it, or if you prefer to find other lodgings above, that is your privilege." His voice was cold and clinical. "Jacques always has a home here, under my protection. Regardless whether _you_ choose to stay or go, you both will be transferred to a new location within these caverns. Is that clear?"

"Oui, monsieur," she said, her voice sounding flat and lost.

"I assume I have no need to tell you that if you choose to make a home elsewhere, you are _never_ to speak of my secrets to anyone outside these walls, and especially never to speak of this lair and its location. If you defy me once more, mademoiselle, you will never again see your brother in this lifetime."

Her eyes grew huge as she swiftly brought them up to look at him. "You would keep Jacques from me?"

"_He_ belongs _with me," _he said through clenched teeth. "The citizens of Paris do not extend kindness toward those who carry imperfections. You have not only borne witness to this – but have proven **_you_** are one of **_them_**."

His snide words came icy in their delivery and low with apathy. She gasped, but the Phantom turned his back on her and strode up the staircase toward his bedchamber, paying the maid no further heed.

She had reacted to his unmasking as expected and still regarded him as a beast, so that is what he would give her. He no longer felt obligated to soothe her feelings or alleviate any dread or anguish she may be having. Indeed, perhaps she _deserved_ to remember the horror of his face, a reminder for her to keep her distance and a weapon through which to maintain her fearful loyalty.

The Phantom stood in his bedchamber, still absent of his bride, and looked toward the twisted sheets of the empty bed. Warmth soothed the chill that had swept over his heart.

_She_ had reacted nothing as expected, bearing no adverse consequences, which had mystified Erik and made him question all he assumed true. Despite her sweet persuasions, he still found it difficult to believe there was no curse involved with his afflicted face since the Persian's immediate demise challenged that idea.

Perhaps his Little Angel suffered no ill effects from looking at his gross deformity because she and Erik truly _were_ once one being, as Christine had delightedly informed him of her sudden conclusion. She could not fear what was at one time a part of herself, could she? And certainly she could not die from it!

It made the only sense he knew to devise, not of logic learned from his studies, but of the soul whose foundation was at the heart. He had been unable to forget her and cease from loving her, as she now knew that secret too, though he had tried to purge such feelings from his heart as if they were poison – God, how he had tried! And when they at last overwhelmed and threatened to destroy him with all he lost, he had latched desperately to hatred as a means for his spirit to survive. He even fooled himself into believing he wanted her with him in these dungeons solely out of revenge, demanding marriage as a penalty to inflict torture. But with last night's demonstration of her unconditional and unceasing love for him, the frail dream he once trapped in the deepest crevice of his stone cold soul had tenaciously struggled free to surface and blind his mind with the true basis of all his motives with regard to Christine…

Even three years ago, when he first conjured his hateful plan to ensnare her, his heart subconsciously yearned to regain the companionship lost and obtain her as his willing bride, belonging to him in every way possible. Not because of hatred but because _of_ _love_.

It was as yet inconceivable but for whatever purpose, God at last granted him that mercy. The Phantom had achieved his fondest aspiration, a lifetime with the woman of his heart, who loved him in equal measure.

And it was for that astounding occurrence he _chose to **forget**_ what made no sense. To forget that part of the past that branded her faithless and cruel, an instigator to his demise, even if in all likelihood an unknowing accomplice. He must forget what was told him, all of what he overheard, and pretend _that part_ of their conflicted history never existed. It was the one thing he must never bring up – the one essential secret he would keep from her. All else he would reveal, as he had with so much already, but this he must keep buried if he was to have the destiny he craved with Christine and the resolve to begin anew…

They had both suffered enough.

His Little Songbird had shown fearless audacity to change his opera and give Don Juan what he most desired, much as she altered the endings to the tales of princes and ogres they acted out as children. She changed their own story from what he miserably thought it was always destined to be. Hence, he too could change the dark tale of vengeance he had begun in this Opera House, for her.

Somehow, he must forget. Somehow he must try…

.

**xXx**

.

Christine soaked in the heated water of her bath, eyes closed in bliss, and dwelled on all of what recently occurred.

She was so elated to be with Erik at last, wanting to mend all mistakes at once and pretend away the lost years as if they never existed – but of course such hopes were futile. They did exist. Damage had been done to them both, and nothing could go back to being what it was, no matter how she wished it. No genie would appear from a magic lamp to grant three wishes. It was up to her and it was up to Erik to repair the injury they inflicted. After last night's heartrending disclosures, at least they were well on the path to doing so.

They had both changed, but in ways remained the same. She had earlier been embarrassed by their awakening to the dawn and the focus of one small boy. But now that those awkward moments were behind her and Erik worked in a far bedchamber to ensure they never again occurred, she could relax and appreciate a facet of her beloved she never thought to see again – the gentle teasing and mocking banter shared with her, as he had done at the Heights, both familiar and different, with all they had been to each other these past months. Such exchanges had exceeded to a far more intimate level that both aroused and embarrassed, making her feel equal parts wanton and shy.

_Things change like the seasons change… but some things, some things are not meant to change. They are meant to stay eternal …_

With wry wistfulness she recalled her former words to him another lifetime ago in a stable and on the moors. How apt those words turned out to be! Nothing was the same, and yet not all things were different … an element of fragile, new trust had blossomed between them since the upheaval of their emotional revelations, which perhaps was the basis for this new ease. And she would do all she could to nurture it.

Yet for all that, the inscrutable curtain of doubt had not completely drawn away from his eyes, appearing at moments she expressed her heart or introduced the past. How she wished to thoroughly expunge what put such foul reservations there!

Somehow she must uncover what still troubled him. Somehow she would…

.

**xXx**

.

The Phantom entered the bath chamber and stopped dead in his tracks. His heart ceased to beat then sped up, keeping pace with the rush of blood in his veins.

Beauty lay there in peaceful repose, clothed in silken water that did nothing to shield every glistening nuance of her form. With her eyes closed, she lay with the back of her neck against a piece of rolled toweling, the hair she had loosely piled atop her head in danger of falling into the water, a few long dark ringlets having already done so and sticking damply to her skin.

On silent feet he moved, doffing his waistcoat and cuff links and laying both on a table next to where she'd placed the missing gown. Picking up a stool he quietly set it beside the copper bathtub and took a seat. As he pulled up his sleeves past his elbows, his eyes leisurely traveled over soft mounds and gentle valleys of cream and palest rose, certain that no landscape of greater splendor existed. A distant memory of a loft in a stable and how she indignantly persuaded him to look at her form and acknowledge her as a woman came to him. Then, he had done so with an equivalent mix of desire and reluctance.

Now, he could not cease from looking or wanting…

He would love to craft her figure into statuary like the Opera House goddesses and angels, to pay eternal homage to her physical charms, for his pleasure alone. He could not abide the foul thought of another man looking upon her unclothed, even in stone decades into the future when neither of them walked the earth any longer. Perhaps such a statue could stand beside their bed in his undiscovered underworld, in place of the absent Nyx, and he grinned to think of her flustered reaction if he were to manage that.

One of his harshest deceptions had been to strip away her presumed conceit and convince Christine that she held no appeal for him, when she was truly the essence of his every desire. His burning gaze lit upon her arm, and a rush of tenderness brought his fingertips to ghost over the ghastly scar put there by the wild cur that once tore into her. Even this blemish did not diminish her beauty, instead oddly enhancing her appeal – an emblem of jagged rose and snow white that set her off from every other woman breathing and would forever remind him of her strong will and spirit to struggle and survive …

As much as he despised that Christine had been made to suffer and always bear the terrible damage that marred her smooth skin, in a bizarre sense it was another facet of what made them alike, more so after her unqualified acceptance of him last night, as if they now bore their scars of anguish together.

He recalled her whispered endearments as she had kissed the scars from his own torments, saying how they reminded her of his refusal to surrender. For the first time, he dimly began to understand how she could see something worthy in him when no one else could and look at him with eyes that did not condemn, since despite her outward imperfection he saw only beauty … though he would never be so absurd as to use that term of perfection to describe himself.

But then, despite her insistence to engage in fairytales no longer, he knew his Christine would always be a dreamer…

She had to be, to love a beast.

Tilting his mask to free his mouth completely, he leaned down and pressed gentle lips to her parted ones. He felt the warmth of her breath in a soft gasp and sensed her eyes blink open.

Pulling away, he regarded his bride. Her eyes quickly flicked down, sudden awareness of her vulnerable state and surroundings bringing a flush of coy pink to her skin. She loosely covered her breasts with her hands and bent one knee to act as a shield, looking at him in timid uncertainty.

"Again, we change the tale," he whispered, "the fairytale princess not roused from her slumber by the honorable prince, but by the wicked beast."

She smiled faintly. "A worthy change. It makes it all the more enjoyable since the first prospect bores me. The Phantom is my preference, but I am hardly a princess."

"Was that not your costume from last night?" He leisurely stroked his fingers down her shoulder to her elbow, noting the water had grown tepid. Leaning down to the right, he pulled the stopper at her feet.

"It was," she agreed, "though that costume has long been discarded. I prefer to be plain and simple Christine."

"Hardly plain. And far from simple…"

Her dark lashes brushed against rosy cheeks. "More compliments? That is so unlike you."

He nodded in solemn acknowledgement. "I didn't appreciate you enough, in England, and when I lost you I regretted every flattery that you required and I withheld."

She frowned softly as if disturbed. "Erik, you should never feel obligated to offer me approval. I was childish to attack you that last day on The Summit for such petty trivialities. I have since learned that those things don't matter compared to the significance of other things, such as the truth, and I would prefer your silence to any admiration insincerely given."

"I am never insincere, Christine." He spoke in earnestness. "I never give praise where it is undeserved. I have not changed in that regard."

She smiled at him. "Good. It means so much more, when I do receive your praise. And when you gave it after I sang well, it made me strive even harder to hear more of the same from you. If you were flip with your approval, I might have gotten lax with my lessons."

"Then I shall be sure to dole out my glowing appreciation in tidbits of the scarcest morsels, scattered so as to be rare, to keep your voice in the most exquisite condition."

At his dry words, she huffed a giggle of mock affront, just refraining from slapping his arm. "You needn't go to extremes either. Now, will you please hand me a towel?"

At her quiet request, he grinned devilishly.

"I think not."

"What?" Her eyes again met his. "What do you mean? _Oh!_" She gave a little gasp as he stopped the hole and pulled the lever to bring more heated water in the bathtub. "Erik, what are you doing?"

The demure quality left her tone which had grown firm in its bewilderment to understand.

"Something I have fantasized about for ages," he quietly stated as he took the slab of scented wet soap and lathered his hands with the creamy residue.

He stopped the flow of water and Christine stared up at him. All her absurd bashfulness dissolved in the heat of the water, her eyes now wide with wanting. Nervous expectation made her heart flutter within her breast, and she wondered if he could see its movement beneath her pink-tinged skin.

He placed his large soapy hands on each side of her neck, running them slowly over her shoulders, lathering her in cream and flame. He did not simply stroke the rose paraffin mixture against her; instead his long fingers and hands massaged every bit of her wet flesh, gradually moving down the instrument of her body in a musician's caress, leaving no area untouched and drawing from within her soft notes of sheer longing.

Christine gripped the sides of the copper tub to stay upright as desire swirled, hot and potent, each point of contact by his hands on her flesh making her lightheaded with need and each breath a mild struggle. He worked his way down her legs, to the soles of her feet and each sensitive toe then moved his way back up again. His hand slid along the inside of her knee to her thigh – but she could take no more.

Grabbing his shirt she pulled him down to her hungry kiss, pushing her tongue into his mouth to churn in a passionate fervor with his. With his hands braced on the bottom of the tub, he pulled slightly back then used one hand to smooth water over the residue of cream on her shoulders.

"I've not yet finished," he said huskily.

"I've gotten you wet," she breathed in reply at the same time and kissed his chin while noting his damp shirt and drenched sleeves above the elbows. Wishing to get him even wetter, she pulled his shirt from his trousers, and he broke away briefly to discard that. Her palms and fingers stroked down hard, scarred muscle, but when she reached for his trouser fastenings intent on stripping him naked to join her, he closed his hand over hers to stop her frantic fingers.

"Not here…"

"But why – _oh!_"

For the second time he startled her words to a close with his abrupt actions, as he lifted her from the water and onto his lap while she clung to his shoulders. Holding her tightly against him, he smoothed one hand along her back to her hip and thigh before answering.

"Because, my sweet Christine, I intend to taste every inch of your silken flesh before I make fervent love to you, and our bed is the best place for that."

His eyes branded her with their fire, his voice a seductive flame of promise….

Blushing head to toe like the fragrant rose that scented her skin, Christine shivered with warmth and held fast to her dark Phantom as he carried her to their bedchamber.

.

**xXx**

.

Later that evening, Christine kneaded dough for bread while Erik sliced vegetables into manageable portions to add to the kettle simmering on the stove. Jolene was packing away her belongings into crates, so Christine had told Erik she would make tonight's supper. She had yet to speak to the girl, had not even seen her, and wondered what she might say when she did. Their last conversation had been cordial enough she supposed, for two rivals over one man's heart, but Christine wanted no further discord in their underground dwelling. She strongly hoped that Jolene would concede defeat and they could all live together, if not in harmony, at least without the constant strain that tightened nerves and at times produced a dull throbbing at the back of her head.

Christine pounded and pressed the raw lump of dough. The entire time they worked, she and Erik exchanged furtive glimpses and secret smiles when their eyes by chance did meet, the memory of their latest interlude of passion vivid on their minds. The transfer of furniture would be undertaken tomorrow with too many hours lost to this day, all of them secreted away in shared bliss within the velvet curtains of their bed. However, thankfully her old bedchamber sat prepared and waiting for little Jacques and his sister, and seclusion was at last Christine's and Erik's to claim.

"I cannot believe it," she said in amusement after what Erik just told her when she again questioned if they were safe from discovery. "Not that you came up with the idea of the pretense, of course. That is entirely believable. But I am astounded that you actually got away with it and no one was the wiser!"

"I _am_ The Phantom," he replied with a wicked grin.

"Yes, and how well I _do_ _know_ that," she replied just as wryly. "But that the entire ballroom of guests believed every part of what happened, thinking last night was staged and that you were an _actor_ and I simply went away with my teacher, as before…"

"I understand Madame Giry was very convincing."

"She must have been, to convince Raoul," Christine said carefully, trying to gauge his expression beneath the mask that he insisted he wear when they were not alone, though at present they were the sole occupants of the kitchen. "He can be very insistent and mule-headed when he believes something is amiss."

The Phantom's lips twitched with satisfied glee at her less than noble assessment, and he waited, sensing she had more to say.

"I did not _choose_ to stay at the hotel with him and his cousin these past weeks." Her voice grew very still and serious. "He knew that you murdered Buquet, despite the police's findings, and feared for my safety. Of course I couldn't tell him your identity, so as to convince him he had nothing to fear and you would never harm me. The only manner in which he allowed my return to the theater was only to sing there and to remain under his protection at all times."

"He is an idiot." Sneering, the Phantom brought the cleaver down hard on a head of cabbage.

She thought it wise not to argue that the Vicomte was only misinformed, feeling a degree of empathy in recalling how once, more than that, she had also been a victim of withheld information.

"I was always under guard while I was above, did you know that?" She glanced at him then back to her task. "I told you in the note but when you didn't respond I assumed you were still upset. Yet I know you often watched me from beyond the mirror – I felt you there."

He did not reply and she looked at him, "I am actually surprised that the Vicomte allowed me to attend the ball, what with his stubborn idea to keep me confined, but Madame Giry was most persuasive."

"As I told her to be." Her Phantom sat motionless, staring at her. "What note?"

"The first day of my return to the theater I left you a note in Box Five to meet me in the chapel." She sank to the chair beside him when his mouth parted in surprise. "Did you not receive it?"

"These past two weeks I conducted my business with Madame Giry in her office." He would be sure to question his aide, since he doubted she had ceased with the weekly habit of checking the box. "So, you discovered my hidden compartment in Box Five?"

"I did," she said, her pride in her achievement superseding any nervousness to admit her action that he might construe as intrusive. "I was determined to get my message to you. When you didn't show up at the chapel, I was worried –"

"_You went there_ _ALONE_, _after what happened last time?_"

At his sudden anger, apparent only in the rising strength of his voice, she quickly spoke, "Meg came with me. I was safe. And Father Dominic was there. We had a lovely visit."

He laid the blade on the table and sat back in his chair, effectively disarmed of his darkening mood as he shook his head in disbelief. "Father Dominic. The priest who married us in the church in the woods. He was at the opera house chapel?"

"Yes." At his reminder of their bizarre wedding, she lifted her chin, "and you should be utterly ashamed for making the good Father an accomplice to your deceit." When he failed to respond, she added, "You did, didn't you?"

"No." He viciously scraped the cut vegetables into a pot. "I instructed him to speak in French, his native tongue. That is hardly a form of deceit."

"There! That you _know_ _exactly_ what I meant proves your guilt –"

"Alright!" His eyes flashed. "_I_ _am guilty!_ What the hell was I supposed to do, Christine? Had he asked you in English, so that you could understand, if you 'take this man, Erik, to be your wedded husband,' you would have then known the truth."

Tingles went up her spine at the words she wished she _had_ heard, and she nodded. "Yes, I would have known," she answered softly.

He admitted deceit; she had guessed correctly at his masquerade. It was a bridge already crossed, and to speak of the matter was futile though she was glad to know the truth.

"He is a nice man," she continued, "so much different than the minister in Haworth. He heard my confession, well, in a sense, and it felt freeing to my soul."

He snorted in derision and she rolled her eyes.

"Perhaps it might help you to speak to him?"

"I need no man's help and have no intention of leaving the safety of my underground den to ride into the woods and bare my soul to an interfering priest."

"Fine." She pounded the edge of her fist into the dough. "Forget I mentioned it."

She only thought it might help, to secretly bare his conscience to a man of the cloth as it had helped her. Irascible fool. She sighed and changed the subject to a matter that piqued her curiosity, ever since he spoke of last night.

"With regard to the Bal Masque," she watched him intently, "before you made your entrance in that dashing red costume, did you appear two hours before that dressed head to toe in black…?"

His lips twisted in wicked amusement. "What puzzles me, my dear, is why you so often ask questions, to which you already know the answers."

Her lips thinned and she crossed her arms on the table, leaning closer. "Why did you dance with Raoul's cousin?"

His eyes again flashed sparks of fire. "Why did _you_ dance with _Raoul_?" He said the name with acerbic distaste, like bitter venom on his tongue.

"I had no choice – but **_you_** did. Does she know who you truly are?" She recalled hearing of his first meeting with Arabella, when she found the secret entrance and wandered into his cave – and he held the woman captive against him the entire time. She frowned. "She kept hidden from me all knowledge of your attempts to visit me while I stayed at The Grange, did you know that?"

He scowled but did not look surprised. "I did try to warn you about their kind…"

"Yes – but I came straight out and _asked you_ on the day of my return, at The Summit. You led me to believe that you only peered through windows, hiding in shadows as you always did and still do – I never knew you actually _came to the door!_ And that first night of my fever – you were in the room with me and would have carried me away back to The Heights!"

"Would it have made a difference had you known?" His tone went flat and he avoided her eyes. "You had already made your choice."

"What **_choice_**? I was in recovery." She frowned. "And **_yes_**, it would have most certainly made a difference."

"Would it," he scoffed. "Your head was so filled with the lust for wealth and position, neither of which I could then give you. I highly doubt my visit, had they allowed it, or your knowledge of my initial arrival through the balcony window would have mattered in the end."

Christine winced, realizing that perhaps he was not yet ready to hold this conversation, even worse, realizing neither was she. A ring of truth she had no wish to acknowledge grimly resounded in his cold statement…

She had been so young and foolish, a dirty and wild little hoyden who'd found herself suddenly thrust among the posh nobility. She had been unaccustomed to being pampered and showered with beautiful gowns and hats, partaking in feasts with delicacies aplenty, and attending elegant parties with attention lavished on her for her songs – with which she then entertained the Vicomte's guests – and she had been given all else she never had and could ever desire. Without Erik near the luxuries soon paled into insignificance, of course, but at first they had been to her a shining lure.

"Why did you dance with her?" she insisted, to drown out the old guilt of her childish pettiness.

He narrowed his eyes in surprised mockery. "Certainly I do not detect a note of jealousy in your tone? Over _two bloody **years**_ you spent living with the de Chagnys, and you are upset that I engaged in one dance at a public ball with the fair lady?"

She frowned in displeasure. "You think she's fair?"

His lips twisted in a half smile. "She does possess a lovely figure…"

Incensed by his response, Christine stormed away from the table, but he caught her around the waist and pulled her down to his lap before she could get past him.

"Let me go, you fiend," she struggled but he only held her tighter.

"You are all I could ever want, my spirited vixen," he growled against her neck. "I wish for no other woman but you."

"We both know _THAT_ wasn't always true," she shot back, pushing at his arms to no avail. "You forget – I _have_ **_cause_** to be jealous." She glared at him. "I learned the truth of your nighttime trysts my very first day in the Opera House, within the _first bloody **hour** – _"

He grumbled something unintelligible. "I danced with the Lady de Chagny to enlist her aid. No doubt her intervention helped to prevent her fool cousin from hacking through the trapdoors to follow us."

"Arabella agreed to _help_ _you_?" she asked in surprise, momentarily diverted by his swift change back to the original topic.

"I was astounded as well. She was angered by my threat and offered to help of her own volition."

"You threatened her again?"

"Not her, the boy…"

Before she could respond, the strident and distant scrape of what sounded like metal dragging over stone made them both look toward the passageway. Curious, their argument all but forgotten, Christine rose off Erik's lap. He grabbed her arm before she could take more than a step toward the sound and also stood, moving partially in front of her in protection.

Suddenly the cat darted into the main room, as if a hound of hell chased at his heels. Mozart stopped, biting at the gauzy ribbon of rose tied around his neck and trailing a few feet behind his tail, batting at it with his front paw in an effort to remove the adornment while making little mewling growls and hisses of displeasure.

Christine recognized the décor of her costume from the Bal Masque at the same time the continual ring of metal striking stones grew louder and Jacques appeared in the entryway. Draped in the crimson tunic of Red Death which trailed at his ankles, he backed into the room while pulling the sword he had broken loose from its scabbard.

"Oh, my," Christine murmured, unable to quench an embarrassed laugh that the boy had found their costumes discarded in the heat of passion.

"_Bloody hell_," Erik swore under his breath.

He hurried toward the boy and divested him of the sword, then laid a firm swat to his backside, while Christine chased the irate cat, finally cornering it near the stove. It glared at her with angry yellow eyes and growled low, the rose satin and gauze ribbon twisted around its neck. Not wanting to get slashed by claws or bitten by tiny sharp teeth, Christine kept a short distance between them and hummed a gentle lullaby that had always calmed Henley during his teething. After a time, the cat's hackles smoothed, its eyelids growing languid and half closed until it rested its chin on its paws. She stared in wonder to see what she had done.

Erik silently came up beside her, his hand going to the middle of her back. "Only an angel's voice could soothe the savage beast," he said quietly, not seeming the least bit surprised by her unexpected skill.

Her Phantom approached the sleeping cat and with swift precision cut away the ribbon the boy had tied around its neck. His stealthy movements did not rouse Mozart, and when Erik returned to her side, she rewarded him with a full kiss on the mouth. Conscious that they had a small audience, she pulled away and retreated a step.

"Thank you for saving Mozart. He never was partial to being restrained in any manner."

"Faust and I have that in common…"

Christine wrinkled her nose in distaste at the loathsome name.

"And we both became slave to an angel," he chuckled at her reaction, placing his hands atop her shoulders to give her another kiss.

"You have more in common than you know. I was drawn to him because he reminded me of you."

She withheld saying more, not yet ready to bring up that dark time and wondered if she ever would be able to speak of it. Perhaps the year of her black madness was better left forgotten.

"You drew me in from the moment I laid eyes on you." He brought the long satin ribbon he still held along her back and hooked her around the waist, using it to draw her even closer.

She curbed a grin, pressing her flour-covered palms to his shirt but not fighting his containment. "That long ago? The little ragamuffin I was, all boast and bluster, you were drawn to me…?"

"Every feisty … dirty …"

She scowled.

"Delectable inch," he finished with a light kiss to her pouting lips.

"Hmph. One would never know it, with the way you treated me for _weeks_ after Papa brought you to The Heights. You would have little to do with me. I had to practically sit on top of you to get you to acknowledge me after that first night we met."

"No," he agreed with a quirk of his lips at her allusion, "My trust is not easily won."

A shimmer of doubt clouded his eyes and Christine grabbed the long, loose ends of satin ribbon trailing from his fists and brought the slack ends around his waist, linking them together and tying the ends at his back on a whim. "I did so then, I'll do so again. You'll never be rid of me, Erik."

"A prospect I could easily endure until the end of time."

"Don't think you'll be rid of me that soon either."

He laughed as if caught off guard, and she smiled at the delightful sound, nestling her head beneath his chin and pressing her cheek to his solid warm chest. Idly she watched Jacques, who flopped the loose sleeves of the red tunic as he walked beside lake, involved in whatever pretense filled his mind, but that is not what suddenly caught and held her attention.

Jolene stood in the passageway leading to the outer corridors. She did not look at the boy draped in Erik's militia costume of an emperor, but stared directly at Christine literally tied in embrace to her Phantom.

It wasn't the expression of stunned hurt or even bitter envy that troubled Christine.

It was the sudden look of grave determination hardening the girl's features that chilled her soul.

At once, Jolene spun on her heel and disappeared back through the passageway that led to her new bedchamber.

.

**xXx**

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**A/N: Next chapter, a few more mysteries of the past will be cleared. ;-) Thanks again!**


	68. Chapter 68

**A/N: ****Thanks as always for the reviews! :) **I haven't had a lot of time to write, but I didn't want to leave you guys hanging any longer with absolutely nothing. So though I planned this chapter with another scene following, I'm going to go ahead and post what I have so far. Better to have tasty morsels more frequently than huge hunks on the rare occasion- right? :) (For those waiting on more Symphony, I still don't have enough written to post a chapter that would be satisfying in length, but hope to finish and get that one up soon too). And now I give you…

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**Chapter LXVIII**

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With a soft purr of contentment, Christine wrapped her arm around her dark lover, nestling more closely to his side. Her head rested on his broad chest, her ear pressed to the rapid beating of his heart. Their bodies damp from their exertions, they relaxed in a languid pool of ease and exchanged short, breathless endearments. The haze from their lovemaking soon began to lose unfocused edges and clear into sharper detail to include their muted surroundings, lit by candlelight coming from beyond the closed curtain of velvet to their left.

The sudden repeated clap of what sounded like small tin bells had Christine jump and partially sit up in stunned surprise. She stared toward that side of the bed and the curtain to the right. Erik groaned at the evident need to move and rolled to his side, flinging back the curtain and reaching hard toward the intrusive noise. In the shadows where the deposed Nyx once stood, a small table now took up residence. Barely seen in the darkness, what looked like a stuffed ape in an exotic costume and playing cymbals perched atop a pillow that sat on a rectangular black box, and Christine remembered where she had seen the unique toy before.

Erik fumbled and slapped his hand at the back edge of the polished box. Instantly the clanging stopped. Once he was again sprawled flat on the mattress beside her, he met Christine's inquisitive stare.

"The boy dropped the music box when he helped to move his belongings into the other chamber," he explained in the deep, husky velvet timbre that always emerged after they made love. "The tune no longer plays well and hangs. Apparently the gear that controls the cymbals is also broken. I told him I would mend it, since I made it for him -"

He got no further in his explanation.

Christine suddenly rolled over him, straddling one of his lean-muscled legs as she lifted herself up while her hands went to his strong shoulders. Victorious, she held her habitually elusive Phantom down, now _her_ captive.

"Ah, yes – _Jacques_. Let us speak of Jacques…"

His glowing eyes flicked down along the front of her and the revealed portion of naked curves that her switch in position now bared, but she did not let his renewed interest deter her and certainly felt no shyness or the need to cover herself after what intimate pleasures they just shared.

"Now that there is no longer any chance of us being overheard, since it is well past midnight and both sister and brother are sound asleep and quite a distance away, I wish to know everything, Erik. From your vague responses earlier and the unusual patience and fondness I've seen you give the lad – which I've never once seen you exhibit with anyone else besides me – I _know_ there is much more to this story than what you formerly shared. Just who is he?"

"He is my brother."

Christine blinked in shock, his low words not fully conveying themselves in her mind to allow for clear thought. Indeed, such a statement, as grave as his expression was for what should be glad tidings to have found his family, made little sense.

"Your _brother_?" At his soft nod, she opened stunned eyes wider at the impact of her next thought. "Then Jolene …"

"Is **_not_** my sister," he concluded fiercely, letting out a snort of disgust.

She shook her head in helpless confusion. "I don't understand."

"Jacques is my half brother."

As soon as he said the words, she recalled Jolene's terse recounting of her parents shortly after Christine awakened from her high fever, months ago. _"Our mother died when I was twelve. My father died when I was a baby. I do not know who Jacques' father is." _After hearing the girl's explanation, until she realized her Phantom was Erik, Christine grimly assumed that he was the boy's father – but instead Erik and Jacques _shared_ a father?

"How did you come by this information?" Christine asked, her interest to know blazing more intensely with every startling piece of information he tendered.

"It is a rather long story."

"I'm not going anywhere," she said pointedly.

With a resigned nod, Erik released a sigh. Slowly he pushed himself up, and her with him, her restraining hold a futile mockery against his greater strength.

"Erik?" she insisted in soft complaint.

"Patience, love."

He set her aside with care and moved to sit at the edge of the bed. Leaning over, he picked up a bottle of wine they had earlier shared with a late night repast of cheese and fruit and poured some into a silver chalice until the dark liquid nearly hit the brim.

In the full sum of time she had spent in these caverns, Christine noticed that her Phantom never drank spirits of any kind, except for one glass of wine with supper, and never did indulge. Now he took a long draught of the burgundy as if it was the sole cure to a lethal disease.

"Erik…?" This time her voice was laced with worry.

He turned slightly and offered her the goblet without looking at her. She took it without thinking and sipped at the bittersweet wine though she had no true desire for any. In the tense silence, her thoughts took her back to their childhood and the rare occasions when he spoke of his family, what little he knew of their existence, which was enough to fill the back half of the smallest of calling cards. Perhaps. If one wrote in large, wide letters. She recalled that his mother was from France … he had supposed that his father was from hell …

"Is that why you first came here, to Paris?" she asked breathlessly. "To find information about your mother?"

He shook his head gravely. "No. I told you why I came."

She shook her head in confusion. "Then how did this come about?"

He inhaled slowly and deeply through his nose, letting the air out in a long, harsh breath through his mouth before he again leaned back against the pillow. "I should begin with my escape from Persia, or rather what came afterward …"

"Your **_escape_**?"

At her emphatic question laced in horrified concern, his lips twisted in a wry grimace.

"Another time, Christine. As I have said, I intend to tell you all that you wish to know, but each revelation must have its own moment."

She tersely nodded, the hold to her patience fastened by a precarious thread. Knowing he was so damnably correct did not make the delay to learn the many mysteries of the missing years any less tolerable to bear.

"Yes, alright…" She let out an inaudible breath, determined for the moment to quash all eager questions and be quietly accommodating to hear all of what he would say. "I'm sorry. I do not mean to push so. I seem to be unable to help myself when it comes to the wish of knowing all about you that I can know."

The Phantom shook his head as if it was of no account and made a small flourish of his fingers in a wave, brushing off her needless apology. His jaw set like flint, his expression took on a hard cast that had nothing to do with the present or her impatience to understand the past.

"On board a ship there are diverse forms of…_humanity_," he said the last with a sardonic sneer. "Among them are the disreputable, contiguous to my own notorious ilk. For reasons I am sure I have no need to express, I chose to remain in my stateroom for the greater part of the journey. However, upon leaving its confines late one night – the nights being one of the rare occasions I allowed myself to partake of the fresh, sea air – I felt I was being followed, and I backtracked, to confront another brigand, a sailor – taking him by surprise in the shadows. At the sight of his barely concealed dagger, I thought he'd been sent to kill me and immediately had my rope at his throat, demanding to know who he was and who sent him. From his panicked words, I realized he had no knowledge of my identity, so I released my hold on him, with a threat never to speak to anyone of our encounter or I would not be so merciful next time."

Three years ago, the Phantom would have disposed of the common thief without pause or remorse. Yet, despite the lecherous Buquet's murder and that of the abusive cook, taking life had long ceased to satisfy, if the bitter emotion he had nurtured in his hurt vengeance could even be called satisfaction.

"Fearful I might yet send him over the edge of the ship into Davy Jones' Locker," he darkly chuckled, "he related his true purpose there; he had tracked for months and followed a foe on board – an enemy who betrayed his family and deceived him over an unpaid debt. We parted ways, with my warning never again to come near me to send him on his. I kept my silence when his victim was found battered and robbed, having no interest in the vendetta of another. Over the course of the voyage, we developed an understanding of sorts, though we remained distant and never again spoke. Not until by happenstance, when we found ourselves in the same tavern after we docked in England. I learned there through gossip that you were with that idiot boy, on your own ocean voyage to visit warmer climes, and I had no desire to remain in the cold and damp terrain any longer than I must. The culprit, Alric, with no further desire to work on a ship agreed for a price to assist me in my endeavors."

Christine set down the chalice of wine and gracefully crawled up to stretch out on the bed beside him, like a beautiful, seductive Delilah intent on his every word and the discovery of his every weakness. No, dammit – _no_! He must find faith in her again, must learn to trust her, though old feelings of betrayal and hurt that he wished forever banished stung his heart with their relentless reminder. He glanced away from her again.

"My stay in England was brief, and I made a decision that has long been a thorn in my flesh." He hesitated grimly. "I went in search of my mother."

Christine gasped in surprise. From what little he told her years ago, she had always assumed the woman must be dead. She simply could not conceive that a living woman, a _mother_, could hand her child over to gypsies to be caged like an animal…

"I could not appear in public without a mask and the presence of one breeds insecurity and suspicion, so I remained hidden within shadows while the wily Alric acted as my mouthpiece. With his assistance in confronting others to seek answers to questions and with what scarce facts I recalled from my accursed childhood, we pieced together what little of my history we could find."

The air seemed to shift and prickle as Christine waited, sensing the difficulty for him to continue... tenaciously clinging to that raveling thread of patience not to prod him again.

Briefly he closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"My mother was the beloved daughter of a gypsy elder whose caravan had been camped in France, near Rouen. A petite thing, she died while giving birth to me. My _grandfather_, in his hatred of me for killing his only child with my wretched existence, forbade any member of his family to have anything to do with me. They cast me off as refuse, leaving me to die in the forest for the wolves to find. If not for the mercy of a feared and demented woman in their tribe, they would have surely had their wish."

He scowled and paused only long enough to take another drink, this time directly from the bottle.

"When I was barely three, my grandmother feared a curse would come upon all of them to have me remain in their camp and persuaded my grandfather to give me to another Romani caravan they came across, in trade. They did not tell that band of gypsies my true identity and passed me off as the child of the mad beggar woman, who could scarcely care for herself. It was in that camp I remained, my earliest memories – a freak in a carnival sideshow. Locked in a cage for years. Until the night I killed my perverse jailer to escape his … _beating_."

His words came to a concise close, his eyes glittering hard and moist, as if his soul relived each fearsome, black moment of the past he had hidden in the mind of the terrified small boy he'd been. His grip on the bottle grew so tight she would not be surprised to see it break in his hand. A tear slid free and he growled in disgust, again tipping the bottle to his lips.

Christine watched him with huge eyes, also glazed with tears, equal parts of horror and compassion stirring inside her heart.

_As a child_ he had killed to survive…his own _family_ had left him as a babe to die and later _sold him?! _

Not knowing how to respond to such unthinkable revelations, she felt there was even more he withheld in those few clipped sentences – that one last word and his hesitation to give it voice expressing a dark pain and torment she did not want to believe possible but was painfully certain transpired. Less than a year ago she never knew such perverse men who craved the exploitation of innocents existed; now after learning the girl's sordid story only months after her own horrifying encounter at her cousin's hands, Christine knew only too well.

Her heart breaking for her dear Angel, she laid her hand on his arm, in an effort to offer what morsel of comfort he would allow. His muscle clenched but he remained still.

"I had earlier reached for and hidden a short length of rope left on the ground outside the cage bars," he continued, his tone dark with a detached satisfaction while faintly trembling with the remembered horror. "When my jailer approached, I kicked him in the groin, and once he doubled over, I came up from behind and strangled him with the rope. It was a merciful end I would have preferred not to grant. I was panicked and sought only to escape. But he deserved a much more slow and agonizing death. What he did – _no man_ should do to a child – even if that child is no more than a monster..."

At his uncharacteristically choppy words and clear struggle to maintain control, she swallowed hard over the painful lump that formed in her throat, aching to draw him into her arms and console him, as the man he was. As the boy he'd been. The jagged wound to his soul surely never had healed; indeed, it was a wonder he'd not been driven over the brink of insanity and could extend affection to anyone; she felt doubly thankful to be the recipient of his love – and so intense and passionate it was! But should she attempt to put her arms around him and hold him now he likely would only construe her act as the pity he loathed, and be angered or disgusted, perhaps even end this disclosure – what she most certainly _did not_ want. So she remained painfully still.

He had never in their lifetime told her so much about his past, and she greedily absorbed each coveted, terrible, pain-filled word, even as his ghastly testimony ripped through her own soul. She contented her desperate need to reach out to him by slowly tracing her fingertips back and forth above his elbow along a puckered white scar made by a dagger, his arms and legs also having not been spared from a blade's cruel marks. Though they bore far fewer scars than his torso held. Her action seemed to soothe him, his harsh breathing eased, and he went on.

"My _dear relations_ had even more reason to despise me other than the grotesqueness of my face and the murder of my mother. I was considered unclean, not only due to the evil eye and my gross affliction, but because my mother had done what was forbidden – she had union with a gadjo – one not of their tribe. Not a gypsy. My _father, _though he deserves no such idiom…"

He took another swig of the wine. Words evaded Christine, everything that came to mind too trite or simple for such a weighty disclosure. She could no longer resist the urge to nestle close and draw her arm around his waist, whether for her own comfort or his she no longer knew, and sighed in relief when he welcomed her advance, drawing his own arm around her. Her tears fell, wetting her hair clouded beneath her cheek.

She felt his pain as intensely as if it was hers to bear, fresh and not a memory of the past, as if she was the one so heartlessly abandoned and mistreated. He had left her yes; she had suffered.

But as a child she had always known the protective tenderness of her dear Papa, had always felt wanted and loved. Erik never had such a blessing, not until she entered his life. And though she felt like a disloyal daughter for the thought, Papa never truly loved him or treated him as a son. He spoke of and regarded Erik as a charity case, giving him a home, nice clothes and schooling, extending kindness because he felt it was expected to help those less fortunate. A worthy ideal, but an obligation all the same and never based in affection. Not once had she seen her Papa hug Erik or kiss his cheek and forehead, as he'd often done to her. Christine was the only one to ever truly love her dark Angel.

His fingers wove into her hair, idly cupping the back of her head, the tips caressing her scalp, and she moved her mouth the fraction needed to softly kiss his chest, beneath which beat so wounded a heart. He released a long pent-up sigh, as if grateful, and she felt his tension begin to ease.

"We learned his name and tracked my father's family outside of Paris," he said after a moment, his voice stronger but still quiet. "My _father _is a sailor who rarely visits his hometown village of Calais, but on his last visit over six years ago remained long enough to bed a local tavernkeeper's daughter, a young widow with a small daughter. Nine months later the woman gave birth to a son, another bastard like myself created out of wedlock. A high fever in his infancy struck him both deaf and dumb…"

"Jacques…" she breathed.

"Jacques," he said with a solemn nod. "Already the village pariah, when the woman died in her sickbed years later, the tavernkeeper foisted his grandchildren off onto his eldest son who came to visit from Paris, and had gained a perverse interest in his twelve-year-old niece, desiring her as a maid at his hotel. He took the boy as well, as she would not go without him and the tavernkeeper did not want either of them underfoot any longer…"

Christine wanted to forever despise Jolene for the pain she caused in her rivalry to win Erik into her bed, and especially for having had intimate knowledge of her husband in the past. Each time that truth broke through her pretense of forgetfulness she pushed it swiftly down to try to drown the realization before it could fully surface, not yet ready to face what she must. As the Phantom with a shadowy history, his nocturnal exploits had bothered her but not unduly. As _Erik_, the mate of her soul, with a history they shared as far as she could think back – they mattered immensely. It distressed her to know he had lain with other women, the bitter sting like a scorpion's stab to her heart – before she could once more force the hurt and the cause of it away.

And yet, after hearing of the girl's mistreatment that began in early childhood by those who were supposed to love her, akin to Erik's own heartbreaking experiences, she found it difficult to retain the bulk of her anger, her recent dislike for Jolene calming into reluctant compassion for her sad plight. One Christine had been most fortunate never to bear.

So much was finally beginning to make sense. So much was at last falling into place. Something she would have to think about soon, but God help her, not yet…

"It was during this time I made my home, here, in these caverns," Erik continued his story, the fingertips of his other hand brushing up and down her arm in repeated caress as he held her against him. "In a bizarre fluke, I learned that the hotel to which the fiend took the children was located several blocks from the Opera House. I went there to see Jacques. I slipped in through the back entrance, not wishing to be noticed, and saw the boy from afar, in the kitchens. In the short time I observed him I could tell he was a victim of neglect, his frame thin and smaller than it should be for a boy his age, his clothing torn and soiled, not unlike a beggar's rags. I slipped into his uncle's office to confront the fiend. I demanded that he hand Jacques over to my care, speaking of our connection through our father. I had no idea what I would do with the boy, mind you, but I was continually reminded of your father and how he helped me, a small, runaway gypsy vagabond, giving me a home. I could not in all good conscience leave Jacques there to suffer, especially since he _is_ family, and was as unwanted as I had been."

"Of course not," Christine agreed, fresh tears dampening her eyes and quiet warmth filtering through her heart to hear his ardent resolve. "You did what you must. You did what was right for Jacques. That does not surprise me."

No matter who her husband had killed, no matter what horrors he had wrought in Persia to make "escape_" necessary_, or the havoc he yet created at the Opera House, she knew, despite how damaged he was, or perhaps because of it, that there existed some aspect of goodness inside Erik – an inherent integrity in his nature that cared about and protected those he loved. It had always been that way. And she exulted in the knowledge that it still was, her heart yet troubled by his dark and flippant confession to her that first night at the hotel, of presumably "hundreds" of murders.

She shivered and tightened her hold around him.

Whether one or more than one hundred, they had that in common and the need to hide.

"The boy's uncle, the concierge, treated Jacques as a useless hindrance but recognized an opportunity to gain wealth," he continued. "He refused me unless I paid a steep price for the boy. Having used almost the entirety of what I absconded with from Persia, I could not meet his absurd demands, even had I wished to. And so I awaited an opportunity to take the lad." He turned his somber golden eyes to her dark ones. "That opportunity came, unexpectedly, on the night of the opening of _Tristan and Isolde_. I followed you to the hotel, saw you in the wretched Vicomte's arms, and slipped through a back entrance into the rain. It was then that I heard the girl scream…"

"And you rushed to their aid and saved them," she concluded softly, taking the bottle from him with little less than half the wine remaining and setting it on the ground so as to slip her hand around his and kiss his palm. She had not missed the bitter tightness in his voice when he referred to her and Raoul.

The Phantom nodded. "The brute, the main cook at the hotel, had struck the boy unconscious and was beating the girl when I arrived. I killed him with my lasso, and their uncle later learned of a masked man seen on the premises inside the hotel during the search for what I now know is your cat. Apparently I was not as careful as I should have been in staying hidden."

After having witnessed Christine held so tenderly in Raoul's arms, soon slipping with him inside his room, the Phantom had been walking in a cloud of hurt rage, uncharacteristically unaware of his surroundings. Slipping outside into the rain had saved the Vicomte's miserable life, for the Phantom's first strong impulse had been to rush forward and snap the fool boy's neck.

"Now, I am a wanted man and must remain hidden. And that, in part, is why these caverns remain my home," he concluded.

She thought over all of what he told her, so much of it too tragic to comprehend, but sensed he awaited her response. His muscles contracted beneath her, proof of the return of his nervous tension, and she asked one of the questions uppermost in her mind.

"Does Jacques know that you're brothers?"

"No."

"And Jolene?" She answered her own question. "No, I suppose she doesn't and that's why you insisted we wait until we had complete privacy to tell me this."

He gave a curt nod. "She has no knowledge of the truth. Nor do I wish her to know my history. She has learned entirely too much about me as it is." He pressed his lips together in grim recollection.

Again, she sensed more that he did not say, but decided in this she had no wish to know, since, perhaps, she already did. Christine sternly forced her mind back to the boy.

"Will you tell him?"

"There is no need. It is best to let matters stand as they are. He is content here. He has a home. He has his sister…"

Christine frowned at his idea of what was "best", since his idea of the "best" had been faulty before, with regard to his cruel masquerade against her.

"You are his brother," she gently insisted. "You are his family too."

"I see no reason to upset the order of his world with that fact."

"Upset it _how_?" She shook her head in confusion. "I should think he would be delighted to know the guardian he so adores is his very own brother…"

"An intrepid murderer," he bit out in tight sarcasm. "A freak of nature. Oh yes, who would not love to claim such a monster as a member of their family?"

"_I would_ – and did." She sighed, wishing to make him understand. "You are _my family_, the only family I have left. I chose you for my husband even knowing all that, though I certainly don't consider you a freak of nature." His harsh expression did not alter and she continued softly, focusing on the latter part of what he said. "My God, Erik, you saved the boy's life and gave him a home. You have taken care of Jacques for years! He already thinks of you as family. Has he never seen you without the mask?"

She asked the last on an impulse to know, recalling Jolene's fearful warning never to try. Surely as stealthy as the boy was, much like his older brother, he _must_ have sneaked up on him at some point without the covering and accidentally glimpsed his face, as Christine had when they were children.

"NO!" his reply came fierce as he looked at her. "Nor will he. You know the consequences," – he pointed savagely to his right side –"He must NEVER see this aberration of humanity that lies beneath the mask!"

Her hand lifted to cradle his scars, those he was born with and those viciously inflicted on him. Her thumb made a gentle sweep against his warped cheek of the longest burn scar.

"I see only a man," and she was thankful he'd given in to her request for her to remove the mask when they retired within their velvet enclosed sanctuary, though he had somberly evaded her at first. "The only man I have ever loved. I did not run, and I certainly didn't die. Nor will Jacques."

"No, Christine," he insisted, placing his hand atop hers but not forcing it away. "It is different between us; you have said so yourself. You are a part of me. It is a truth complex to conceive, but I feel you deeply beneath my skin through every sinew and bone and fiber of my flesh. You flow throughout my veins and are in my blood; perhaps that is why the curse has no ill effect on you. We _are_ one, made more so now. But Jacques…" He shook his head. "Even if he somehow escaped the horror of the evil eye, I could not bear for him to see me as I truly am, to suddenly look upon me with fear or loathing…"

"I highly doubt he ever would."

"And I can never take that risk."

She shook her head sadly and lowered her eyes to the sheet, not knowing what to say to break through such stubborn gypsy beliefs – all of them wrong, so horribly wrong, she was sure of it. Perhaps the Persian had been diseased or possessed a bad heart for it to fail so quickly…

The Phantom peered at her face with grave intent, noticing how she frowned and averted her eyes from him.

"And you, Christine…" His voice came soft and raspy with lingering emotion, the slight quaver both from fear of her response and the disgust of the creature he was. "Now that you know from whence I came, that I was a mistake born of nature…now that you know I am not only a murdering beast, but a bastard as well, and the full extent of my disgrace, do you regret giving yourself to me as a wife and pledging a lifetime of commitment?"

Her startled gaze swung up to his. "Never."

Her reply came swift, the conviction ringing clear in her voice, and his eyes fell shut in relief. Her heart twisted at the pain he so often tried to conceal as her other hand rested against his perfect cheek to cradle his face fully.

"You are not a mistake, Erik … though sometimes you do _behave_ like a brutish beast."

His lips quirked at the corners at her gentle teasing, however true the sentiment, and he nodded shortly in acknowledgment.

"But you are so wanted and needed and loved." Her tone grew softer in its sincerity, the words precious and fragile with their need to be embraced. "My _life_ would be a mistake without you in it; certainly it was in error while you were missing from it. The days black and white with no color to them. Harsh. Absent of all music. And I am that much more convinced God sent you to me fifteen years ago, to be my companion always. Because nothing and _no one_ has ever satisfied me as you do, as being in your presence does…"

She touched her lips against his in slow tenderness, moving her hands from his face to link around his neck, her fingers weaving into his thick hair. "…and now, to have this intimacy we share, this passion, which goes beyond such a weak word as bliss…

"_Christine, __mon amour, __mon petit Ange.._._Je t'aime pour toujours_..."

She shivered deliciously at the deep velvet of his French endearments, that seemed their own caress. Flicking her eyes up to his golden ones, she saw the desire again burn so intensely.

"Satisfy me again, my love," she whispered. "I want to feel your hands caress every part of my body…I want to feel every inch of your skin beneath my hands..." Her face flushed with warmth at her bold words, but she did not cease with her coaxing whispers… "Let us satisfy one another…"

There was no need to vocalize such wishes.

At the first brush of her lips against his, Erik pressed his warm palms to the back of her hip and the center of her spine in tender possession, returning her kisses with hunger while laying back with her against the silk sheets. She spoke such sentiments in the sole hope that the more times he heard the truth of what composed her heart, the less he would waver in disbelief with regard to her unceasing love for him.

She would once and for all time break through the prison bars of his foolish doubts…and in so doing she would set them both free…

Further coherent thought and speech fled at the sensation of his lips and tongue making a slow, heated slide between her breasts and down her stomach. Christine moaned deeply in rising excitement, utterly giving herself over to the passion of her beautiful dark angel.

**xXx**


	69. Chapter 69

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews – they are much appreciated! :) Just sorry I couldn't get it up sooner (March- May are always some of the busiest months of the year for me) …And now…**

* * *

**Chapter LXIX**

**.**

The next afternoon, while Erik was immersed in the cumbersome project of moving her furniture to their bedchamber, Christine went in search of the boy. She had always felt an affinity with the amiable lad, made stronger now that she knew Jacques and her husband were half brothers.

Once she entered the boy's room she found not Jacques but his sister there. Perched on the edge of the bed, Jolene sat with her back to her. Christine half turned to go when she looked deeper beyond her initial tense, fleeting glance to note the slump of the girl's shoulders. A muted sniffle attested that the girl either had a cold or was crying. The slight tremor of her shoulders suggested the latter.

If she was wise, she would slip out as quietly as she'd come, without the maid ever knowing of her presence there. Christine still did not feel ready to confront her, silly as that qualm was, and she stiffened her shoulders, determined to prevail over such petty foolishness. She had Erik's love. He told her so. She refused to dwell on his sowing of wild oats in the past, especially with this woman. And she would see to it that such behavior remained in the past.

"Jolene…" Her tone was quiet but firm. "Are you unwell?"

The young woman jumped a bit then hurriedly swiped her eyes before slowly turning and offering her silhouette. "I am fine."

Relieved to go and eager to put distance between them, Christine began to turn away then remembered the message she had been asked to give from the young maid at the hotel. However, before she could speak, Jolene was first to do so.

"I- I spoke with the Maestro," she began haltingly. "He told me I could stay."

Knowing what she now knew about Jacques, the news did not surprise Christine, though she did not have to like it. She gave an abrupt nod.

"But you … you do not wish for me to remain?"

"Can you blame me for any reluctance I might feel?" Christine asked somewhat testily. "You were plotting to take my husband away from me; perhaps you still are."

If Jolene was surprised by her forthright manner, she gave no sign of it and turned fully to face her.

"You did not want him," she softly argued. "I did."

"And do you still?" Christine worked to keep her voice controlled. "Want him, that is."

"You would agree?" Jolene's eyes gleamed brighter then dulled before Christine quite understood what she was asking – or rather not believing she would have the gall to ask such a thing. "It is of no matter. He will not have me. He hates me now."

Stunned that the girl actually would believe Christine might condone the preposterous notion, she took a moment to reply. "It is of no account if he will or will not have you. Erik is _**my** husband_ and **_not __yours_** to have." She sighed to see the girl's crestfallen expression. "Why should you think he would hate you?"

Jolene wrung her hands in her lap. "I saw his face."

Christine gave a sharp nod of understanding. "You came upon him by accident then?"

The girl briskly shook her head. "He removed his mask. He – he _wanted_ me to see." She looked down at her lap. "He wanted to _frighten_ me…" she added the last in a whisper.

For two reasons he had admitted he willingly removed his mask – to instill fear with regard to the absurd gypsy superstition that to do so would cause an enemy's death, and to make his enemy flee. From his manner toward the girl, she doubted he sought her demise. He must have hoped to make her run. And foolish chit that she was, Jolene gave him exactly the reaction expected.

Christine moved forward the few steps needed and grabbed the maid's arm in a vice-like grip. "What did you do?" she hissed. "What did you say to him?"

The girl winced in pain. "I said nothing! Let me go." She wrenched her arm from Christine's hold.

"Did you scream?"

Jolene looked at her as if suddenly unable to understand the spoken language.

"_Did you scream?!" _

She moved her arm back as if to slap her and Jolene scooted back on the mattress to avoid contact. Christine just barely managed not to follow through with the angry impulse.

_"No! _I never screamed – I ran – to my chamber!"

"You little fool…" she whispered.

"You don't understand –"

"No, it is **_you_** who fails to understand. It is only a face."

"But he _wanted_ to frighten me …" Her tearful blue eyes grew wider as Christine's words soaked in. "…you – you have seen beneath the mask?"

"Of course – I am _his wife_. You should not have run – and after all he has done for you and the boy! After he has given you his protection and shelter." Christine took several steps away then whirled to look at her, so upset, she was barely aware of the words she spoke. "The Maestro saved your life – gave you _a home_ – yet you treat him abominably – just as those fools who don't even try to know him for who he is! How could you be so cruel?"

And how could she convince Erik that the entire world was not against him when he experienced rejection and hostility within his own home? As he always had. God, was there nowhere safe where they could live in peace? On the wild and barren moors, five levels beneath the earth – it seemed there was no place for them to find a semblance of serenity.

"I did not wish to," Jolene insisted, jumping up to cross her arms over her chest and pace away in anxious irritation to the opposite wall. "I could not help my reaction. It was a shock – you say you have seen his face, then you know – and he **_wanted_** to frighten me!"

Recalling his bitter words of why he would do such a thing, she glared at Jolene's back.

"What did you do that should cause him to want to make you run?" she asked.

"I went to him, but he did not want me," the girl said bluntly. "He will never again want me to lie with him."

A dart of anguish to be again so callously reminded of their past relationship pierced Christine's heart. "As it should be! He's married **_to me_**_ –_ a truth which **_you _**cannot seem to remember!"

"I don't understand why that should make a difference."

"_You don't understand …?_" Christine barely parroted the words, her mind reeling. She stared at the girl in dread shock. "What do you mean you don't understand?"

Jolene looked at her, sincere puzzlement in her eyes; oddly, her expression made her almost childlike, seeming no more than an innocent. "Most of the men my uncle made me visit in the nights were married. It made no difference to them. One man had his wife there, who wished also to be involved…"

Appalled by the maid's hardly subtle implications to share her husband, Christine brusquely shook her head. "That is _not_ how things will be here! Don't even think it!"

"Don't you think I know that?" Jolene softly cried. "I did not care for the arrangement, though it didn't matter what I did or did not like. If I failed to please his customers, my uncle punished me _and_ Jacques. The Maestro never beat me; he was kind … but, it doesn't matter. He will have nothing more to do with me. I told you. He hates me now."

"That is not the point. His feelings toward you – no matter what they are – have no bearing on this."

"Am I not allowed to wish for the same things?" Jolene asked in petulant aggravation then hesitated as if shocked to hear she had spoken what was clearly on her mind before pushing onward. "To be wanted and cared for, if not loved…?"

"But you _don't_ want him," Christine insisted, "Not any longer. You said –"

"I said he no longer wants me."

The barely audible words seemed to resound within Christine's ears with their dire suggestion. "I think perhaps you should go," she said firmly.

"Go…?" Jolene looked troubled. "Leave this place? But the Maestro said I could stay –"

"It makes no difference. This arrangement can never work." Christine realized she was being hardhearted and cruel, in light of what the girl once suffered, but above all she would fight for and protect her marriage, now that she again had a life with Erik. "Surely there is someone you know who can take you in, someone other than your uncle?"

The girl shook her head. "There is no one."

"Your grandfather perhaps?"

"He does not want me back, he was happy to be rid of both Jacques and myself," Jolene said sadly then looked up in quiet panic. "But I cannot leave without Jacques – and the master has said he will not let him go!"

Christine turned aside in frustration. Of course Erik would not want his brother out of his care, more so since the boy was so desperately in need of protection, due to his affliction. Nor did Christine wish Jacques to leave …

"It would seem that we have reached a stalemate," she clipped quietly, resigned to her fate. At least for the present.

"A stalemate?" The girl shook her head. "I don't know this word."

"An impasse … a standstill. Neither of us able to achieve our goal." Christine sighed. "I had hoped, once, that we could be friends. Never mind." Hearing light, quick footsteps in the corridor that attested to the boy's imminent arrival, Christine felt it necessary to add, "Clearly there is no evident recourse but for you to stay. However, let me make one thing perfectly clear, Jolene – you _will_ stay away from my husband. He needs no mistress; he has a wife. And I alone will please him. Is that understood?"

The girl nodded, head bowed. Christine swept out of the chamber, not trusting herself to say more, her face warming in embarrassment with an indignant blush regarding what little she _had_ said. She smiled at the approaching boy who always had a smile for her, and laid her hand against his head in passing as she returned to her new bedchamber she shared with Erik.

Once there, she arranged her belongings the way she wished, hopeful to forget the disquieting conversation she had just concluded. But it was of no use, and the cause of it led her to remember the scandalous stories told her with regard to the notorious Phantom of the Opera on her first day at the theater…

Christine slammed a perfume decanter down on her vanity table with more force than necessary, grateful she had not chipped the beautifully cut crystal. Sinking to her velvet cushioned stool, she planted her elbows on the table and buried her head in her hands.

.

**xXx**

.

At the sound of a step behind her, Arabella turned from the window.

Raoul walked to where she stood and pressed a kiss to her forehead. His eyes clouded with concern once he pulled away. "Something troubles you, my dear?"

Many things troubled her, but she chose to speak of that which was of most concern.

"Will he agree, do you think? Your father…"

"To our union?"

Arabella slightly nodded, and he shook his head.

"It is too soon to know how he will respond. I only sent the letter informing him of our plans three days ago."

"Yes – and we shan't hear anything for weeks yet – but Raoul, his intent was that you should find me a husband of means, was it not? To pad the de Chagny coffers which have become somewhat diminished?"

"We are not destitute," he argued. "Far from it."

She turned away, her gaze going out the window to the street below. "Your father was hoping for my marriage to benefit your family's situation. You cannot deny that."

"How do you know all this?"

"I overheard your conversation in the library when your father last visited," she confessed.

He sighed, troubled, though she heard the smile in his voice. "Trust nothing to get past you."

"Then you _do_ think we have cause for concern?" She gripped her arms above the elbows, rubbing her hands over her sleeves as if at a sudden chill. "He might still insist I marry Lord Cavendish."

"That will not happen, since he put me in charge."

"You did let his lordship down easily, I hope? He was kind."

"Of course. He left the hotel with every bit of his dignity intact."

Arabella vaguely nodded in acknowledgement. In the street below, she watched a young woman she suddenly recognized as their maid, Giselle, scurry across the street and grab a strapping young lad's arm. He turned in aggravation. They seemed to be having a row, which lasted no more than under half a minute before he stormed down the street and the girl slowly returned back to the hotel.

"Arabella, listen to me. It doesn't matter what Father thinks," Raoul said, turning her by the shoulders to face him. He lightly cupped her jaw with his hands. "We will find a way to be together."

"And if he disapproves?"

He shook his head a little. "Don't trouble yourself over such matters. I vow to you as I'm standing here, we will be wed before the year is through, as we planned."

"What if your father disowns you? Could it come to that? I could never allow myself to become an obstacle to your future."

"I am Father's only son and sole heir. Indeed, the entire line of de Chagny ends with me. To cut me off would be to cut off his right arm." He lowered his hands to rest at the top of her shoulders and smiled gently. "Perhaps what is needed is to leave these stuffy rooms and dwell on more pleasant surroundings. Would you care for a ride in the park?"

She shook her head, distracted by his smile. "Later this afternoon, perhaps … You are right. To leave these rooms is an important change that must be made."

His brows drew together at her strange phrasing. "Very well. Where do you wish to go?"

He lowered his hands to clasp hers, the brush of his thumb further stimulating her senses and leading firmly to her resolve.

"I must acquire other rooms, Raoul. I can no longer stay here."

"What?" He blinked, taken aback. "Are these rooms no longer to your liking?"

"The suite is lovely. It is the presence of both of us within that must be rectified." At his blank stare she sighed. "We are no longer simply cousins sharing rooms. You are my betrothed, and for appearance's sake we must maintain all standard levels of decorum. If word of our living arrangements was to reach your father's ears, he might not be inclined to favor us with his blessing. And what should your mother think of me? I don't wish her to look upon me with disfavor."

Ever since they made their deeper feelings known to one another, a novel tension filled the atmosphere when they were alone together. Attraction had intensified to awareness, with every sense heightened in anticipation of what Arabella could not yet allow. She had broken many rules in her short lifetime, but in this she would remain steadfast. Reputation was everything to the nobility, a class to which, like it or not, she belonged. And it was her own wish to remain chaste until her wedding night. Understanding Raoul's inherent sense of honor, she was not surprised to see his face flush, assuming his thoughts ran along the same channel as hers.

Instantly he dropped hold of her hands and took a quick step back. "Of course. I hadn't thought, though I should have. Pardon my ignorance…"

"Raoul." She closed the worried distance he forged and laid her hand on his coat sleeve. "Don't look like that. I don't believe you will pounce on me or seduce me where I stand."

"Don't think I don't want to," he admitted quietly, to her surprise. "You are a lovely woman, Arabella. I long for the day you will be mine."

His frank words shocked her. Nor had she ever been called lovely, never once believed it so. Women like Christine and Giselle were lovely; landscapes and sunsets were lovely. But Arabella…? Yet in his eyes, she saw that he believed his words, and she could not resist lifting herself on her toes to press a gentle kiss to his lips. The warmth of his mouth made her linger, and soon he was kissing her, his hands lifting to spread along her spine, until breathless, they parted. The emotion darkening his eyes to blue flame must certainly mirror her desire. Yet it was not Raoul she did not trust; it was her own impulsive nature.

Instantly his expression again became contrite. "Forgive me, in light of your qualms I certainly had no wish to be untoward…"

"Raoul." His name came firm as she lightly and briefly pressed her fingertips against his lips to silence him. "If you would be so kind as to tell the concierge I need a room."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"And as I said, there simply is no other option."

"What kind of gentleman would I be to push you out of these rooms that are at present your home…?"

"You are hardly pushing me out, Raoul; it is after all my idea."

"Nonetheless, I will go. You keep the suite; I shall make arrangements elsewhere."

He pivoted to leave. Before he was halfway across the room, Arabella stopped him.

"Raoul, wait." He turned in question and she moved to stand before him. "There is one other matter. The maid who daily tends us, I wish to acquire her exclusive services while we reside here. I find I miss the loss of a ladies maid more than I imagined. Perhaps the management will allow her to fill that need?"

The idea, she hoped, would be mutually beneficial. Each morning the girl helped lace her into her corset, and in the evening when she banked the fire, she unlaced it. Arabella had experience in executing the remainder of her toilette, since boarding schools did not allow for girls to keep ladies maids, and at The Grange, the girl appointed for her aid gave her cause for concern, so she rang for her only when necessary. A few odd and sundry items had been mislaid, never to be found; a velvet ribbon, an ivory comb, a fan. Nothing of great value, and Arabella never spoke of her suspicions that her maid conveniently misplaced them, as she could not prove the girl a thief. It had been far less troublesome to leave her behind in England. She missed Christine's companionship, and with Raoul relocating to another room, the sitting room would seem even emptier.

"Raoul…?" she prodded when he did not respond.

He heaved an uneasy breath. "The maid? Are you certain that's wise, Arabella? After all, she is not trained for such duties."

"All the better. In fact, I would prefer it. I can then instruct her to my specific needs."

He looked away, toward the window. "I am still not certain she would be … suitable for the use of a maid to a lady."

"Whyever not? She's not intrusive, is quick to please, and performs her duties well."

He winced slightly at her frank words. "There are matters you don't know…"

"Then enlighten me." When he said nothing, she continued, "Perhaps you refer to her unfortunate employment under the hands of the beast who mishandles her."

His attention swerved back to hers in surprise. "What do you know about that?"

"I would have to be blind not to notice anything amiss. The girl has more mishaps than any creature I know. It is evident he beats her with regularity."

"Ah." His eyes flickered as if just coming to an awareness of the maid's distress …

… or perhaps the awareness that they were speaking on two different subjects.

"Is there something else you know about Giselle of which I'm unaware?"

"It is not a subject fit for a lady's ears."

"Oh, for God's sake, Raoul, I'm not made of spun glass. Please, tell me what you know."

He compressed his lips. "Very well, if you insist."

"I do."

"The concierge provides a service to the hotel's male clientele, one not spoken about in polite society."

Arabella's brows gathered in curious puzzlement then cleared in horrified understanding.

"You mean…"

"Yes."

"But – how did _you _learn of this –"

Raoul was quick to correct her misassumption. "I was approached our first week here. The concierge was under the false impression that I scheduled … a meeting. That's as far as it went."

Arabella gave a stiff nod. She did not question his honor though she knew of the nobility's custom to stray, bedding servants and taking mistresses seeming to be an acceptable standard, if concealed and kept discreet.

"Arabella, look at me…" He tipped her chin so that her eyes met his. "I'm not my father. I don't live by his rules."

"I know that…" And he was not _her father_ either. As a child, on occasion she recalled glimpsing her papa always without his knowledge and in situations she shouldn't have known existed, usually in embrace with one of the housemaids. She had lived four years at The Grange, in Raoul's company, and learned enough about him to know his words were sincere. But what troubled her most at present was the news she had just discovered.

"If anything, you have further persuaded me to do what I must to get Giselle out of that horrendous man's clutches. At least while we're still in Paris."

When Raoul only stared, she shook her head. "What?"

"I was just recalling that we've had this conversation recently but with the tables turned. Christine being the one in danger, stalked by the Phantom at the Opera House."

"Oh, that." Arabella turned away at his dry words and again looked out the window.

"And it still puzzles me that you show very little concern of his blatant interest in her though she is your closest friend – indeed, imploring me to put such thoughts of his capture and retribution far behind me."

"Raoul, please, let us not discuss this again." She rubbed two fingers against her forehead. "I told you, she is safe and with her teacher. All is well."

"Safe. And well. Both are such relative, basic terms, Arabella … which does not explain the anxiety that rolls off of you in waves when the subject of Christine and her teacher is introduced."

She did not know how to respond – how could one explain away so many lies? To do so disturbed her. Regardless, she offered them freely, a necessary sacrifice to aid the fierce and misunderstood love that Christine and Erik shared, and to atone for her own wrongdoing against them. But each act of duplicity bred another, and especially now that she and Raoul had grown closer, were that much harder to give…

And to bear.

She was saved the need for any reply at the soft click of the sitting room door as it closed behind her.

.

**xXx**

.

Jacques sat across from Christine, popping bits of juicy figs into his mouth from a bowl there as he trekked one of his demon soldiers along the edge of the table. She bent to give her end of the table one last swipe with a dishcloth, then pivoted in retreat – to collide forcefully with Erik's broad chest.

"Oh!" she yelped in surprise.

Before she could do little more than blink, his hands clasped her around the waist to steady her. His golden eyes danced with amusement which strangely both addled her and sparked her irritation.

"Which reminds me," he said, his voice low and mildly stern. "We must work on your presentation today."

"My presentation?" she repeated, baffled at his reference.

"Your rather graceless movements in your performances of late."

Her face warmed with embarrassment as her annoyance increased. "If you wouldn't always sneak up behind me, as you've done ever since we were children, I might have known you were there and prevented the collision!"

"I walked as I always walk…"

"Too damn silently, like a cat stalking prey!"

"…But I certainly don't mind such a 'collision' if it leads to present circumstances such as this," he continued in a low, silky tone as if he'd not heard her accusatory hiss.

Realizing he still held her much too close, with his hands spanning her waist and Jacques only a few feet away and staring curiously at them, she pushed Erik's hands from her body and took a step in retreat.

"There was nothing wrong with my performance. Indeed, Madame Giry actually _complimented_ my dance form last week. And you likely know her well enough to know she also rarely gives praise."

"I am not speaking of the ballet."

"What then?"

"In the last performance you gave, in addition to the unfortunate alterations you concocted, you moved quite awkwardly when turning and ascending the bridge."

She gaped at him. "Of course I was awkward! What else would I be? I sensed you up there watching and that you were likely upset –" Her incredulity escalated to vehemence. "And the changes I made most certainly **_were not_** unfortunate, since my rewrite of your opera brought you back to me – which you as much as admitted to!" she ended on a triumphant note.

"You wish to speak of this now?"

She ignored the mild warning in his voice. "The audience loved the ending. Surely you heard – surely you _know_ since you were there and _saw_ their reaction to the changed act."

He narrowed his eyes. "What are you saying, Christine?"

"It should remain that way for future performances."

"No. It most definitely shall not."

"But you saw –"

"No, Christine! Enough!"

He paced away from her, clenching his hands at his sides.

"Why not?" she insisted, following him and trailing his steps. "Give me one good reason."

"It was contrived and felt that way, damn it. Completely disproportionate to the way I wrote Aminta."

"And therein lies the basis of the problem," she snapped back. "You must rewrite Aminta!"

He laughed without humor. "Absolutely not."

"But **_why_** not?" She stamped her foot in aggravation. "You as much as admitted you patterned her character after mine, though I am **_nothing_** like that vain, evil, and disgustingly selfish and contemptible woman!

When he did not respond a pang ripped through her heart. She stared at him as he stared at the still, green waters of the lake and the white mist that rolled in over the surface.

"You don't _truly_ think I'm anything like her, do you, Erik?"

He sighed when she would not relent. "Evil? No. Wild … spirited … reckless. Yes. But never inherently wicked. Vain – once upon a time, most assuredly, but no longer. And selfish…" His lips twisted in a wry smile as he faced her. "I suppose we are both of us selfish, Christine, or you would not be here now. And you cannot tell me that you do not still do as you please – and damn all the consequences." His arm shot out and hooked around her waist, drawing her flush against him.

"Let me go," she bit out, pushing her palm to his chest to no avail, her strength no match for his.

"Selfishly, I do not wish to. Nor will I. Ever again."

His lips covered hers in a kiss meant to possess and all the fight left Christine as she melted against him, a candle to a flame. Her lips and tongue just as eagerly sought his as the warmth he generated trickled through her bloodstream, and she held to him as fiercely as he held her. When she felt she might faint from the need to breathe, he withdrew his lips from hers but did not loosen his hold from around her.

"Will you kiss me into submission then?" she managed.

"Will you submit?"

"Never."

A reluctant smile tilted the corners of his lips, that twisted and mischievous smile she adored and remembered so well; it made her want to kiss him again. Instead she pulled away, loath to let him dissuade her.

"The opera reflects what you think of_ me_, Erik, tell me it's not so. Changes are made to the production all the time – I've seen and experienced enough through rehearsals to understand how such matters work."

"Bloody hell." He threw his hands up in exasperation. "It is an _opera_, Christine. How many times must I say it? A dramatic and tragic tale of fantasy. If you insist on drawing parallels, that alone is _your_ problem. To make changes to Aminta's temperament, so as to make sense of your complete alteration of her feelings in the final act would take an excessive amount of time to accomplish. Weeks. Perhaps months."

She felt he was stalling for an excuse and doubted it could take so long to make a few tweaks here and there. "Then you will not change it?"

"No, Christine. The opera will remain in its original state."

She pushed away from him and whirled in the direction of the main corridor, noting that at some point Jacques had left the chamber.

"Where are you going?" Erik asked after her.

"For a walk in the tunnels." She did not look at him but continued on her course.

"Be back within the hour, ready to practice," he said with cavalier authority from behind her. "It would not do for you to grow lax in your voice, and as I previously stated, there is much room for improvement in your mannerisms and comportment…"

_The insufferable, pigheaded, arrogant beast…_

She almost bit her tongue in half not to turn and lash out at him.

Evidently he could care less to consider her injured feelings over his wretched opera. _Her_ changes had been excellent _and_ well received. That should count for something. But when it came to his music, he was still very much the intractable Phantom and so damnably obstinate.

Her ire increased to glimpse Jolene lurk in the shadows near the chamber exit before the girl quickly ducked out of sight, an obvious eavesdropper to their confrontation. Christine hastened her pace but once she reached the corridor entrance, the girl was nowhere to be found.

Livid to realize the entirety of what Erik's maid-whore-mistress had overheard, Christine felt it only a matter of time before her feelings could no longer be silenced, then wondered why she should bother to silence them at all.

Turning mid-stride, she glared at her poised husband, the self-established king of his underworld, as he resumed writing his music, unaware of Persephone's eyes burning twin holes into his broad back …

Though surely that abducted queen was much more docile in nature than Christine.

Wild. Spirited. Reckless…

If that's what he saw, she would by no means disappoint him.

* * *

**xXx **

**A/N: Methinks things are about to get pretty heated betwixt the cavern's rulers. ;-) **


	70. Chapter 70

**A/N: Due to increasing demand, I am again juggling 3 stories and have finally written enough to post a full chapter of this one. :) Thank you guys for your patience as I craft these stories - and hope you enjoy …**

* * *

**Chapter LXX**

**.**

It came as no surprise to the Phantom that the evening practice proved to be an absolute travesty. Christine, still bearing a grudge over his refusal to change Aminta's character for the opera, pouted and fumed in silent resentment, tense actions which strained her delivery of the newest aria he had written. Barely curbing his impatience, he ordered that they work on the choreography of the current opera instead. Her bearing stiff and stilted, she executed the moves even more awkwardly than when she performed them on stage, causing him to sardonically question if her joints had any flexibility whatsoever, or if she was a wooden doll, which led to another brusque exchange of words between them.

Weary of such tiresome inanities, he pulled his lips against his teeth, ordered an end to the fiasco of a practice and told her to go to bed.

Christine stamped her foot like the small girl she once was who had been instructed by her nursemaid to do the same thing – and had different ideas.

"I will _**not** _go to bed," she snapped, "and – stop treating me like a wayward child!"

"_**Then cease acting like one**!_"

**"_You_** are the one being so stubborn! Had you bothered to even take time to look and notice the audience reaction the other night, you would _**know** _they preferred my interpretation of the character over your pathetic rendition!"

"So we are back to that, are we?" he bit out.

"We never came to an understanding!"

"No – it is **_you_** who refuses to understand!" He grabbed her below the shoulders and gave her a little shake. "I am the composer and my word _is __**final**_. How many times must I say it, Christine? I **_refuse_** to rewrite the whole damned opera to suit your foolish little insecurities!"

"Foolish?!" With an angry wave of her arms she broke free from his hold to jab her finger in his chest. "You – who knows me better than any person living – how can you **_think_** I would not see that I am the mold from which you created that harridan Aminta? And a warped image at that!"

"**_Do_** I know you, Christine?" His words were forceful, low and terse. "Do I really?"

She blinked then stared at him blankly as if taken off guard. "What do you mean…?"

The Phantom opened his mouth to reply, thought better of it and once more grabbed her arms, pushing her away from him. Though much had been resolved between them, it did not change the fact that four years ago he heard her viciously denounce him with his own ears and, not one day later, heard proof that her despicable vanity and greed started the wheels in motion that led to his supposed demise.

He wanted a future with her, he loved her damn it, but the only way to succeed in a life of wedded bliss and live out the dream was to attempt to forget all of went on before – and he could not very well do that if he was again forced to pore for long hours over his opera of vengeance against the woman who was now his bride. He had triumphed. He would not exchange his hard-earned victory for defeat. Better to let his opus play out the season and spend his working hours on composing his new opera, a _better_ opera…

"Nothing, I meant nothing," he said with quiet finality. "Now let this be the end of it."

"No, Erik, I want to know what you meant by that remark," she insisted. When he remained silent, she shook her head in exasperation. "Why must you always be so stubborn? I don't ask for much and often have seen much bigger changes made in rehearsals. This is such a small request, really. A few minor changes here and there ..."

"In your estimation, perhaps. I have told you –"

" – all manner of excuses that make no sense!"

He swung his arm toward the bedchamber and pointed to it. "**_Go to bed, Christine_**!"

She crossed her arms over her chest and lifted her chin in the air. "I have told you before – I am not a dog to be ordered to heel and obey. And I _don't_ **_wish_** to go to bed –"

"**_Fine then_**," he growled. "Do whatever the hell it is you wish – **_as long as you remain here_**. I have business to attend to above."

He spun on his heel and left her, his strides long.

"ERIK!" she called after him. **"**_Erik,_ **_come_ _back!_** Don't you **_DARE_** run from me!"

The Phantom paid her no heed, putting swift distance between them before he flew into a rage. The heat of anger boiled beneath his flesh, and he tore through the tunnels like a madman, almost at a run, until exhaustion cooled the fury and he could again think clearly.

Self control he had learned to master, patience its offspring, and he often bided his time for long stretches, waiting and watching from the shadows before exerting his cruel and clever methods of justice. He knew how _not_ to act rashly, though he did not always choose to do so, especially with the imbeciles above. But **_never_** would he harm Christine, and to swiftly and suddenly quit her presence at times **_was_** needful, even if she thought him only a coward, a knowledge that rankled but must be ignored.

She would never relent and he could take no more of her incessant pleas, since he did not dare grant them. He wished to give her the world, but would not do anything that could make their existence topple on its axis…

What she did not know, what he did not tell her, was the mercurial state of his mind during the entirety of writing that damned opera, of writing _her_ character especially, as he had transferred those tragic days of their past to the pages of the fictional opera – different names and settings – but still the same damned theme. From wrath to despair, his emotions had teetered on the brink of madness. All that had been absent from his personal Hades had been the fire and brimstone. It was difficult enough to watch the reminder of those dark days play out on stage from a distance, but to immerse himself in the creative process of the accursed opus would be to revisit hell …

He could not subject himself to that again, could not daily relive her past unfaithfulness and treachery – especially since he had achieved the impossible, and of her own desire she was now with him. He wished only to dwell on their present life together and forget those final days at The Heights.

Near the stage entrance the Phantom slipped into the world of the contemptible and the privileged to observe matters inside his Opera House.

Casting a speculative eye around the darkened theater lit only by the occasional torch, he noticed nothing amiss. A couple of drunk stagehands passed a bottle between them in the shadows of a backdrop of fire. A coy giggle behind the thin tapestry of crimson curtains brought his attention to a silhouette of a couple locked in embrace.

With a fleeting look of disinterest, he continued through the corridors and walked toward the chapel area. He had only just concluded his routine inspection when movement in the distance caught his eye.

A bobbing pinpoint of golden light floated toward him, the bearer behind it wearing a billowy wrapper tied around her nightdress. He grimaced at the sight of the foolishly hopeful ballet rat and turned away with a barely discernible rustle of his cloak.

"Monsieur Phantom?" the query came nervously.

The revelation of the bearer of the voice had him freeze in his tracks, and he turned slowly and stared, though she could not possibly see him where he lurked in shadows. Carefully she advanced, her attention darting around the path before her as if searching him out. Her long hair was a halo of light, the golden glints deepened by the flame.

"Monsieur Phantom … are you there…?"

Narrowing his eyes, he stepped into the path a short distance before her.

"Oh!" The ballet rat jumped and retreated a step in shock, almost dropping her candlestick. The flame wavered, on the verge of going out. Pressing a hand to her heart, she collected a swift breath. "You – you startled me!"

"Mademoiselle Giry. I _did_ hear you request an audience with me?" His tone came mocking.

Her pale features blushed a light shade of scarlet, and he speculated if she wandered the empty corridors for a different purpose than he originally assumed. For the past two years he ignored those expectant ballet rats into whose path he crossed, silently and swiftly turning away from their presence before they caught sight of him. Meg Giry had become a friend to Christine, and he assumed upon finding her here that she did not share the same aspiration as her peers – no matter that she eagerly gossiped of his former exploits to all who would listen and scrambled to catch sight of him during his rare visits to communicate with those in the theater.

Had he been mistaken?

Warily he watched as with one hand she gathered the top edges of her wrapper above her full bosom in an uneasy gesture. She did not bear the aura of seduction as the others had, did not wantonly approach, and he allowed himself to relax, waiting to hear what she had to say.

"Yes, I …" she hesitated as if cautiously forming a reply in her mind. "I wish to know – is Christine well? Maman told me next to nothing the night of the Bal Masque or of your plan to take her with you – then. Though I am certain she was willing to go."

He lifted his brow at her hasty conclusion and the memory of how he had abducted his bride in front of all present. "You are certain?"

"Yes, of course. She did all she could to get back to you and was terribly distressed at every failed attempt, especially when she was forced to stay absent from the theater. That was so difficult for her. All she wanted was to return and find you."

It pleased him to hear it, not that she suffered, but that her resolve to reach him had never waned despite the breach of distance he had thrice erected between them. And all because of that wretched boy. Every act of their separation, both purposeful and without warning, could be traced back to that ignoble fiend ...

"I saw her disappear with you through the floor and a trapdoor I never knew existed. I tried to talk the Vicomte out of gathering a mob and chasing you, telling him she was safe with her teacher, though of course he doesn't know that is you. But I was never sure if he resisted…"

The Phantom gave an abrupt nod. "Christine is safe and well."

Her lips fluttered in a faint smile. "I am pleased to hear it. I thought she might be – and happy, I'm sure – but … will she be coming back to the theater to perform? That is, when …when performances resume...?"

Her face drained of its rosy color as she caught herself at the edge of her words, her eyes going wide as if she suddenly remembered the cause for the delay.

"Some say … that is, did you…?"

"Yes, Miss Giry?" His query came calm and cold when her barely articulate words trailed away. "You have something more that you wish to ask me?"

She swallowed hard and faintly nodded, her response coming in a burst of words –

"– Did you kill Monsieur Buquet?"

"I did."

"Oh." She rapidly blinked as if trying to assimilate the weight of those two words that came without apology or remorse. "I –I thought I might have seen you in the flies that night, the moment after, well… _after_ – but I said nothing to anyone. You must have had good reason to do what you did…"

Her rush of words sounded hopeful, even pleading.

"Must I?" His smile was sarcastic. "I am mystified as to what would lead you to arrive to such a conclusion. I am, after all, the Phantom of the Opera – known for my wicked ways."

"Oh. Alright..." Apprehensively she looked down at the lit candle she held, clearly uncertain what course to take next, but to her credit she did not flee.

The Phantom had spent the last four years of his life creating fear and inflicting terror on the undeserving of mankind. To grant mercy was unknown to him – as was the atypical dissatisfaction to cause this girl, who had become an ally to Christine, unnecessary grief in believing the deceit he created with his flippant reply. Inhaling deeply, he pondered whether to elaborate and let his breath out with his decision.

"The fiend brutally attacked Christine and would have done so again by his own admission. He deserved to die."

"Oh!" Her eyes lifted to his in shock. "Then I am _glad_ you rid the theater of that awful lecher!"

Surprised to hear such emphatic words from one so innocent the Phantom masked a grin. He recalled how she once revealed her curious, dark excitement of his "morbid activities" on the night of his wedding to Christine, much to her mother's undisguised horror and disapproval.

Yes… Meg, perhaps, was different than the loathsome rabble who resided within the Opera House. Christine trusted this young woman enough to enlist her secret aid. Faith in mankind was as distant to him as the moon, but the girl had proven her merit – though there was one matter that so often infuriated him and must be dealt with.

"Christine told me you have been a worthy accomplice in bringing us back together. Perhaps there is more you can do to help…"

The girl's eyes lit up and eagerly she nodded. "Of course – anything, monsieur."

"First, there is one matter which must be addressed…"

His voice rumbled low, strong with authority, and her eyes widened as she gave another nod, this one tentative.

"There will be no more tales shared from your lips about my … erstwhile experiences in these very corridors of the Opera House. Do you understand?"

Her skin flushed redder in mortification as she answered with a quick half nod. The Phantom felt the heat of embarrassment darken his own features to be discussing with this girl such intimate matters that now brought nothing but remorse and shame, and was grateful for the black mask that covered two-thirds of his face.

"If you are to assist me, you must keep my secrets well – **_all_** of them. That includes the entirety of secrets involving Christine."

"Assist you?" Her eyes lit up with eagerness. "You mean like Maman does?"

He grew stern when she failed to address his command. "I must have your word, Meg Giry. You will **_not_** spread such gossip about me again."

"No. I-I won't. I promise." Flustered, she looked back down at the flame of the candle she held.

"However…"

"Yes?" She quickly glanced up at him.

"I may have need of that loose tongue of yours to spread a different wildfire…" He narrowed his eyes in thought.

She tilted her head in curiosity. "Monsieur?"

"The Vicomte, I assume he has regularly made his presence known inside the Opera House since the night of the Bal Masque?" At her nod, he grunted in disgust. "And was he appeased with the explanation of Christine's disappearance?"

"He has been asking the cast and crew questions."

"With regard to what?"

"You. Christine. Her teacher."

The pesky gnat! – would he never stop with his meddlesome ways?

Pensively he nodded, a half smile twisting his lips as a plan formulated in his mind.

"Then listen closely, little Giry. This is what I require you to do…"

.

**xXx**

.

Moments after Erik hurriedly vacated the lake room, bent on whatever destination he chose, (and Christine wondered what "business" he had to attend to so late in the evening) – Christine whirled around with a thwarted little growl. Her first impulse – to clear the closest table of objects with an angry sweep of her arms – was eclipsed with the urgent need to find and talk to her elusive Phantom husband and have this out once and for all.

She ran to the corridor through which he left, intent on chasing him down and forcing him to shed light on the irksome mystery that continually haunted, but soon realized her goal was futile. He had well and truly disappeared – and must have taken a secret passage of the many that existed inside these caverns, one of which she knew nothing. One probably dark and damp and laden with his infernal traps.

In a stew of vexation, she returned to the lake chamber. Once there, she fumed and fretted, feeling like a veritable thundercloud, thankful the boy and his sister had both retired for the night and could not see her in such a horrid state.

She did not understand why Erik was so damned obstinate about changing the wretched opera. She barely asked a thing of him in all these months – and why had he said what he did – about not truly knowing her? She had bared _her_ **_soul_** to him! Had confessed every horrid thought and act committed since the night he left The Heights! But why should **_she_** be the only one to confess, when she **_had_ _not _**_**once**_ broken her vow of eternal love for him, whereas **_he _**had attained the despicable title of the Opera House Don Juan – not in fiction but in fact?!

Her body a taut bundle of nerves, Christine fretfully paced the chamber until she worked herself into an emotional state of exhaustion. Deciding to rest her eyes a moment and ease the dull throb that had begun at the back of her skull, she slipped out of her confining dress and laid down on the bed, clad in her chemise. Not believing she could sleep, she was surprised to find herself suddenly coming to consciousness. Immediately she turned on her side, her mind still in turmoil.

In the faint glow coming from one tall candlestick that stood near the bed, Christine saw that Erik had returned and now slept on his back, the detestable silk mask in place. Her first inclination, to snatch the foul thing from his head – an encumbrance to always keep her out – dwindled as her gaze dropped lower to his bare chest, muscled and defined. The sheet rested at the waistband of his black silk trousers, and her fingertips ached to draw sensual patterns against him, to feel the sensation of his warm flesh with the strength of steel beneath – his entire body a delicious conflict of silk and coarseness, sensitivity and strength. The sparse tufts of short hair did little to cover the rigid patches of his many scars, and for a moment her heart softened to remember their conception.

But only for a moment.

Her fingers curled into a tight fist as the recollection of what led to her latest upset came to mind. The worst of it, for once, she felt unable to suppress, and sitting up she drew her clenched hand hard against her midriff….

x

During his span of imprisonment by the Shah's men, the Phantom had been ingrained with the defensive measure to discern when he was no longer alone while in slumber. In his light sleep he felt the presence of his wife beside him and knew he was not truly alone, but sensed a thick tension in the air that caused him warily to open his eyes.

Christine had awakened and sat sideways on the bed facing his direction. As stiff and straight as a ramrod, she glared at him.

"Christine…" he began suspiciously, edging himself up on his elbows to lean against the headboard. "Is there a problem?"

His calm words further provoked her silent fury and she compressed her lips into a thin line.

"How many, Erik?" Three words that came out brief and cutting, like the lashes from a whip. "How many were there?"

"How many … problems?"

"How many **_women_**!"

He slowly shook his head, at a loss, which further infuriated her.

"Don't bother denying it, Erik – I **_know_**! The whole damn opera house knows, and besides that, you found sick pleasure in telling it to _my __**face**_, before I learned of who you truly are!" She swiftly changed position to sit on her knees, leaning toward him with her palms pressed flat on the bed. "So now I want you to tell me – I **_demand_** that you tell me – how many were there besides that jezebel of a maid? Two? Three…? **_More _**_than three_…?"

"I am **_not_** having this conversation with you." Whipping away the sheet, Erik shot off the bed and away from her.

"_Oh__!_" With a frustrated little cry she grabbed his pillow and hurled it as hard as she could at his back.

The silken missile did not faze him, glancing off his shoulder blades as he stood facing the wall. He reached for a decanter of wine they earlier shared, pouring himself a glass. Lifting it in his hand, he stared at it hard then tossed the red liquid back as if it was water. She rarely saw him drink except on occasion with meals, so assumed he must be very upset to need its sedating effects. But that did not dissuade her, for she was certain her ire far outdistanced his.

Christine hastily disentangled herself from the sheet and left the bed to approach him. "I want to know, Erik. I want you to _tell me_…"

"Of what possible benefit is to be gained by recounting a past that never mattered?" he uttered low between clenched teeth.

"That **_never_** bothered you before! You certainly never minced your words to me when you gloated of your nocturnal exploits in abandoned corridors! Is that where you went tonight?" Her query was tight, horrified by the sudden thought. "To meet with one of your dancing floozies?"

With a splinter of breaking crystal, he threw his glass at the corner wall and spun around to grab her shoulders.

"Damn it, woman - _what the __**hell**__ is wrong with you_? How can you even think something so absurd?"

"How can I _think_ it?" she repeated in disbelief and gave a harsh laugh devoid of humor. "How can I **_not_**?!" She sensed she was behaving horribly, even childishly, but he deserved every accusation flung at him, and it had been a long time coming.

"You **_know_** you mean the world to me and are all I ever wanted!"

"Clearly I was not ALL you wanted!"

He winced. "Enough of this, Christine…"

"How many _were_ there, Erik? How many besides Juliet and Winnie and let's not forget Jolene…" She hated that she so easily remembered the harlots' names that had been so deeply inscribed in her mind. Hated also this obsession to fill in the dark areas when the light of revelation could only hurt more. But the mystery of his past also had teeth that could and did gnash at her fears, strengthening her insecurities.

He pulled away and turned from her, but she rushed to his side and grabbed his arm, looking up into his face.

"**_Tell me_**!"

"**_Three_**," he growled, "only those three."

"_Only…_?!"

Bitter tears rose to her eyes, the hurt fresh to hear him admit what she had always known to be true, what he had never in any way hidden.

"I was faithful to our love long after your _death_," she vehemently whispered_. "_I only ever kissed Raoul _once_ because anything more felt like a betrayal to you and the memory of what we shared."

His eyes flared behind the mask and he grabbed her below the shoulders once more. "He **_kissed_** **_you_**?! When? Since your arrival in Paris?"

"Oh, no – **_don't you DARE turn this around on me_**!" She flung her arms wide, breaking free from his grasp. "I was a **_virgin_** when you took me –surely you remember, Erik? But **_you_**! You cannot say the same! All those years I thought you were dead – but **_you_** – you **_knew_** I was alive!"

His jaw grew hard like chiseled marble. "It was **_your wish_** to know of my past encounters, Christine. I have no desire to hide the truth from you. Not any longer. However, if you do not like what you hear, perhaps you should no longer ask."

He was right and that galled her even more. She crossed her arms tight against her chest and cast her troubled gaze to the ground. She _was_ grateful for his vow to be truthful, at the same time irate at the cause of that truth. Briefly she closed her eyes, attempting to find some sort of emotional equilibrium.

"Yes, I did ask. I asked because I have long needed all the cobwebs of the past swept away. The mystery of it and being left in the dark is far worse."

He gave a slight nod, as if he understood.

She swallowed hard over the painful lump in her throat but held her head high. "So, were those … _women _special to you?"

He expelled a fierce breath through his nostrils when she did not relent.

"Erik –"

"No!"

"Then they were mistakes made one time?"

When he gave no reply, her resentment again escalated.

"So they **_weren't_** all meaningless! They **_did_** mean something!"

"Christine…"

"NO!" She retreated a step as he reached for her. "_Don't you touch me_."

He was not deterred and stepped forward, grabbing her above the waist and pulling her close against his hard body. "You belong to me! You are **_my_** **_wife_**…"

"Who obviously _did_ **_not_** mean the world to you! I thought you were dead, but you **_knew_** I was alive," she repeated, still unable to believe it. "Damn it, Erik – you KNEW! Yet you sought out other women to be with and did not return _to ME_!"

"You KNOW why!"

"No, I don't," she insisted, angrily swiping the tears from her cheeks. "I thought you **_loved_** me! Why would you _do_ that to me?"

"**_Because of your betrayal_**!"

"MY_ betrayal?!"_

Clearly he was the one guilty of betraying their love, not she!

Christine blinked the hot tears from her lashes, pressing her palms hard against his chest in vain, wishing only to get away. He tightened his hold on her.

"Need I remind you that I left that infernal country to return to England only to discover that you were traveling through the Mediterranean with that wretched boy."

"…**_And_** his cousin!"

"Weeks after my arrival to Paris I learned through my contact that you were engaged," he continued bitterly as if he'd not heard her. "That was the night I found Juliet, the **_only_** night."

"Your contact lied. I was **_never_** engaged! Rumors were always spreading throughout the countryside by busybodies of things that were **_just _**_**not true**_!"

He closed his eyes briefly, his expression almost contrite, but said nothing.

"It must have been Jolene then, as I suspected," she continued, needing to hear the entire abysmal truth and have it all aired between them, no matter how painful. "You gave her a home, you are with her every day…"

"For _Jacques'_ sake."

"For Jacques. Yes, for Jacques – but why did you sleep _with __**her**_?" She hated that her words came out in a plaintive whine. He shook his head, refusing to speak, but she persisted, "How long were you intimate with Jolene? How long, Erik? Days? Months? **_Years_**…?"

"**_One night_**," he bit out, "one night, on the night she first came to be here."

Her eyes widened at his admission and he gave a harsh laugh.

"Yes, Christine, I took Jolene, a girl no more than thirteen years – a prostitute well versed in the arts of seduction and manipulation – but a child nonetheless. And ever since that despicable black night I have resented my lewd behavior and never touched her again."

"Why did you do it?" she whispered.

"I thought she was you!"

"Me!" She glared at him in disbelief. "You truly expect me to believe that? We are **_nothing_** alike!"

He grabbed a thick handful of her hair at the nape of her neck when she leaned away, forcing her to look at him.

"She seduced me while I dreamt of you. Later I found Winnie – who **_looked_** like you. That was the night of the opening of Tristan and Isolde…"

Her eyes grew wide and grimly he nodded.

"Yes, Christine, that was the night I first saw you again after two years apart – saw you in the arms of your **_precious Vicomte_**. I watched you holding hands in my opera box, later watched you enter his private suite as you clung to one another –"

"I didn't stay with him! I only sought his comfort – as a **_friend_!"**

"I know that now. **_Then_** I felt as if a knife had been driven through my heart; I felt betrayed. I drank myself into a stupor and returned to my lair, to find Jolene hiding near the lake, naked and almost frozen…"

She slowly shook her head, uncertain that she could bear more of this, but did not interrupt to stop him.

"I will spare you the details, but in my inebriated haze, in my darkened chamber, again, I thought she was you, that you had come back to me…"

His words made sense but stung deeply. To know that in this very chamber, in their bed where they made love, he had first been intimate with another …

She struggled to retreat, but he was too strong.

"_And_ **_Winnie_**?" she demanded. "Were you with her only that one night?"

He did not respond, only looked at her with grim regard, and she stared up at him in confused hurt.

"It was more than one night… You – you had an actual **_relationship_** with her?!"

"Damn it, Christine, **_enough_** of this torture! You were all that mattered then – and all that matters now!"

Bending swiftly, his hand still wrapped in her wild tresses, he crushed his lips to hers. Feebly she struck his shoulders, trying to twist her head aside, despising the swift flame of desire that singed her skin. Always he had this control over her, this hypnotic power to make her insides melt with one touch or glance. As Erik, whom she had known, as the Phantom she had not...

With steady deliberation, he backed her up and fell with her to the bed.

"_You __**lied**__ to me, you beast_," she hissed then groaned with need, to feel his lips trail over her shoulder that had been bared in their struggle.

She was a wretched contradiction of deep-seated emotion. She loathed him and she loved him. She wanted him as far away from her as possible, at the same time she wanted him to gather her close in his arms and never let go.

He pulled her chemise lower, his mouth pressing kisses along her collarbone. Her hands smoothed along his shoulder blades before bunching into fists and hitting hard against him.

"No…NO!" Her words, at first a whisper, became adamant. "**_You_** betrayed **_me_**! You betrayed **_our love_**…"

Her fingers tightened in his hair and she tried to pull his head away. "Did you _love her…?"_

"I have only ever loved _you…"_ His labored breath warmed her skin, damp from his moist caresses. "I was angry, hurt. I thought you'd chosen **_him_**. She was a means to an end. I never cared for her, for any of them."

"But you made love _to_ **_her_** more than once…" A tear escaped, rolling down her temple. "Your refusal to admit it speaks volumes. You _must_ have cared…"

"No, Christine, never…"

She moaned as his lips brushed the top of her breast and briefly sucked in the hardened pebble of soft, sensitive flesh. Still she tried to push him away, though her halfhearted attempt came much weaker than before.

"I was with her only because I could not have **_you_**_!_" He lifted his head then, his golden eyes blazing with hunger and remorse and the need for her forgiveness. "What Winnie and I shared in the weeks we met was far removed from love. It was animal lust and the mutual need for revenge and to be wanted, nothing more."

His bald-faced words stung like the slash of a blade to her soul – that her Erik had physically desired and been with another woman – **_three_** of them – was difficult to hear, more so than she realized.

Yet she had asked for this, requested his complete truthfulness, demanded it of him. So she should not resent him for these admissions of the painful details into his past when he was granting her that wish…

Her wounded heart failed to blithely accept such reasoning.

"Before you came back into my life and my bed, I had not lain with a woman for two years," Erik went on, his tone low and emphatic. "All of what happened with the others were mistakes created while in the depths of my despair. I came to regret every one of those encounters deeply and realized I did not want a weak replacement that could never satisfy or touch my heart. There is room for only one woman there."

Along with desire, sincerity glistened from his solemn eyes, lit like the flames of twin candles.

"I wanted _you_. Only you… I _love_ you, Christine …"

His velvet soft words were a tender balm that caressed the tattered edges of her soul. She forced away the lingering resentment of his past conquests, lifting her hands to frame his face.

A host of problems had torn them asunder and kept them apart – locked up in old fears, misconceptions and lies. But if they were entirely honest with one another, as they had been since the night of the Bal Masque, as they had been tonight, and if they built on _that_ trust – surely the reverse would occur and prove to be the key to hold them together?

With her thumbs, she gently wiped the tears that leaked onto his cheeks. His countenance was both earnest and remorseful, the love he pledged to her brimming in his eyes and spilling over into every word and action. Since she had been reunited with him as the stranger he had presented himself, in his guise as the Phantom, she rarely had seen him so sensitive, so vulnerable…every emotion vivid and real and no longer hidden behind an invisible shield.

Unable to create angry distance any longer, no longer wishing to, Christine lifted her head, pressing her lips to his, and with that kiss, she silently gave him her forgiveness.

Their shared affection, at first gentle and conciliatory, soon deepened and blazed with their sole need. Within moments, they were tearing at each other's clothing until they lay fully exposed to one another, flesh pressed to flesh. Arching her back, Christine grasped handfuls of her lover's hair while his hands spread along her spine and his heated mouth made a thorough exploration of her body, sparking her blood with rivulets of charged passion.

Lifting her thighs against his narrow hips, Erik plunged inside her to the depths of her core. She gasped in hungered pleasure as he filled her so completely, as to vanquish all emptiness and make her feel whole again.

Ripping away his mask, she grabbed each side of his head and brought his cherished, scarred face close while lifting her mouth to press against each ruddy patch and run her tongue along each protrusion and deep ridge.

These alone were hers – his scars, his face, his body. His _heart._ His _soul._ No other woman had touched him the way she touched him, of that she was now certain.

The knowledge deepened her excitement. The sensation of his skin beneath her seeking lips and hands was stimulating, the planes and hollows uneven and unique, smooth and rough – all of it an idyllic composition of her Erik…

The Phantom groaned deeply beneath the onslaught of his Angel's affection, though her caresses did not cause him any degree of pain. But always, to feel her touch on tortured skin that had never known such a blessing overwhelmed his heart, and he pulled away – only to grasp her head and crush his mouth to hers.

Ever so slowly he moved within her drenched walls. Gasping at the sensation and wishing to press herself as close as possible to her husband, Christine wrapped her legs around him, their tongues entwining even as their bodies did. The flames of passion heightened, until mutual hunger clamored for more, and he tore his mouth away from her kiss-swollen lips. His strokes came short and rapid until the culmination of their desire washed over them in powerful waves that left them both drowning in pleasure, spent in the warm glow of their love and gasping for breath.

Christine clung to Erik as he languidly kissed her neck and the slope of one shoulder. All the while he whispered sweet endearments in a low, sensual rumble that always surfaced once they made love.

"_Mon Ange … Mon Amour … le désir de mon cœur _…"

She reached for him, lifting his face to hers, and he read the tender plea in her eyes. Understanding the unspoken need, with a tender smile, he moved so that his lips were a breath away from hers.

"_Always you are to me, My Little Angel…_"

A happy tear slid from her eye to hear the name that was his alone to call her. The most treasured name that had put a swift end to the ruse, so that they could be brought together at last.

"_Erik, my dear Phantom, you dwell inside every beat of my heart and always have... I love you beyond what any words can say_."

Holding him deeply within her body and treasuring these last moments of their deepest intimacy, Christine pressed her fingers to the hollows of his cheeks and closed the breath between them in a tender kiss.

No matter what went on before, no matter the mistakes they had both made – she was now his, and he was hers for all eternity. And if she must lie, fight, steal – God help her, even _kill_ – to protect that bond, she would_ never_ lose the mate of her soul again.

**.**

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: A vow from the heart that will never be challenged or a dark foreshadowing of what's to come? I guess we'll see (heh heh heh)… I have this all planned out to the end, though the story is not all written, but as always, curious to know what you guys think – and thanks again for the reviews! :)**

**_le désir de mon cœur_ - my heart's desire  
**


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